Alisa III Chronicle: Uniting Foes
by DezoPenguin
Summary: A collection of Phantasy Star 3 fics centered around the first generation protagonist, Prince Rhys of Landen, or taking place during his time as a hero.
1. Preface

_**Preface**_

When I first started writing _Phantasy Star_ fanfiction, I tended not to write about actual game events. My rationale was simple: I figured that the people who were reading my fiction were those who'd actually played the game, and therefore knew that story already. I wanted to write about other things, to flesh out the characters, or explore some of the interesting ideas shown but not developed, or to speculate about the ramification of some point.

Now, the irony there is that, unlike _Phantasy Star IV_, which is liberally laced with cutscenes and story development, _Phantasy Star III_ has very sketchy story development, the bare minimum needed to advance things and give the player the ability to do things. However, at the time I started writing, Mike Ripplinger had recently written "The Adventures of Rhys," which in fact _was_ a novelization of the events of the first generation, fleshing out many of the character motivations, backstories, and settings. Now, I would have done certain things differently, using my own ideas of how things worked, but the fact is that I had no interest in writing something that not only all my readers had played for themselves, but also that wasn't even an original idea for a fanfic! I wanted to break new ground, explore things that hadn't been done.

The irony here is that it's entirely possible that some of you reading this fic now have never played _Phantasy Star III._ Heck, if you surfed into this story because you read things of mine from other fandoms and decided to give this a try, you may not have played any _Phantasy Star_ games at all!

In this first generation, especially, my stories do not tend to explore game events. Rather, one story ("Masquerade") is a prequel to the game, and the rest take place between the first and second generations. The second and third generation stories aren't quite so rigid, including several which flesh out the "backstory" behind the game events.

However, for the benefit of those of you who haven't played the games (or just don't remember what the heck exactly happened when since it's been a dozen years since you last looked at the thing), each of these prefaces will include a section of Game Information detailing that generation's quest.

Here's the one for Rhys Sa Riik, Prince of Landen:

~X X X~

**GAME INFORMATION:** Rhys begins the game on his wedding day. Apparently, he's set to marry the beautiful Maia, who washed up on the shore near Landen without her memories; they fell in love while she was recovering. Unfortunately, the wedding day is disrupted by an attacking dragon, who states that the "Filthy Orakians!" will never have Maia, and flies off with her. Rhys angrily attempts to call out the knights of Landen to pursue the dragon and save his bride, but his father points out the many technical problems with that, such as that, oh, nobody's seen a Layan _in a thousand years_. When Rhys refuses to relent, the king has him tossed in the dungeon to cool off, and the prince is carried out of the throne room raving. However, it seems that Rhys's father wasn't quite as opposed to the idea as it seemed, as not only does the dungeon cell contain valuable equipment, but a girl named Lena immediately arrives to unlock the cell and let Rhys escape to go find Maia.

Exploring the local towns, Rhys finds out that a creature was seen flying off towards an island south of the village of Yaata. Unfortunately, the only available boat is piloted by a somewhat senile fellow who refuses to sail unless there's a good-luck cyborg on board. Fortunately, Rhys is able to find 1,000-year-old combat cyborg (actually an android, but one can chalk it up to linguistic drift...) Mieu waiting in the forests nearby for a descendant of Orakio. Convenient how such things work out. Sailing to the island, Rhys finds neither the dragon nor Maia but instead a man named Lyle, who gives Rhys a jewel called the Sapphire, which can unlock the eastern cave. Lyle then up and vanishes. The eastern cave leads to a weirdly techno-styled passage, like something out of a sci-fi game instead of the medieval fantasy that (other than the cyborgs) thus far _Phantasy Star III_ has appeared to be.

The passage leads to an entire other "world" called Aquatica, which appears to be sheathed in unnatural ice. Rhys is told in the village of Rysel that something is wrong with the weather control systems, and that they can be fixed in yet another world. This passage doesn't require an unlocking gem, so Rhys travels to the desert of Aridia. In the village of Hazatak, he learns about the weather control tower and that a Wren cyborg can fix the systems. Probably meeting up with a crazy Mieu-type named Miun that aimlessly wanders the desert along the way, Rhys retrieves technical systems specialist Wren from the cave, and heads into the weather control tower. There he also meets Lyle, who was apparently himself trying to fix the weather but lacked the necessary expertise with ancient technology to do so. Wren turns the appropriate dials and pushes the appropriate buttons, and Aquatica is saved. In gratitude, Lyle invites Rhys to visit his home in Shusoran.

Returning to Aquatica, Rhys finds that the seas there are no longer frozen, so he can take a boat with his companions to the island where the cities of Agoe and Shusoran are located. Only, it turns out that Agoe is an Orakian city but Shusoran is a city of Layans—just in case the player didn't notice that Lyle has the ability to use Layan techniques and uses the weapons and armor that the instruction book say that Layan males use. Moreover, a girl was taken into the castle of Shusoran! Something is clearly up. In Shusoran, while the stores are open for business, the population is keeping its mouth firmly shut, and the castle is sealed up. Rhys sneaks into the castle through a secret passage hidden in a town fountain, except that halfway through the castle, Lyle leaves the party. He's met again in the throne room, though, where it turns out that he is, in fact, the Prince of Shusoran, and challenges Rhys to a one-on-one duel! Once Rhys has laid the smack down on the Layan prince, Lyle decides that he's a worthy ally; apparently Maia is Lyle's cousin, the Princess of Cille. While Lyle wasn't in favor of the whole "marrying the enemy of your entire people" concept, he'd come to get over his ethnic bias and decided that if Rhys could earn his way through, he'd support the match. The girl in Shusoran's castle turned out not to be Maia, but Lena, the Orakian girl who let Rhys out of prison. Apparently the whole "don't be a racist bigot" thing is catching on...

According to Lyle, the only way for Rhys to get to Cille is over a land bridge, which unfortunately doesn't exist at this point (one would think there'd be easier ways, but on the other hand, maybe the king of Cille is having all boats sunk on sight and Layans have other means of travel?). However, using Lyle and Lena's gems, the Moon Stone and Moon Tear, a system back in Aridia can be operated which will draw the two moons closer to the worlds and change the tides enough to reveal the land bridge. This plan does in fact work, and Rhys enters the castle of Cille. Hacking his way through the guards, Rhys finds the King playing overprotective father, and the entire party has to fight him. When the King is defeated, he yields to Rhys and decrees him a worthy suitor for Maia (apparently Layans watch _Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha_?).

Rhys can then choose to marry Maia (who now has her memories back but, apparently, hasn't forgotten about Rhys) or Lena (who turns out to be the Princess of Satera from across the river from Landen) to decide what will happen in the second generation.


	2. Masquerade

The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestone road that led through the town of Landen towards the castle gates. Torchflames burned in iron cressets lining the road, marking the way for the guests, who came on foot and by carriage alike. In the fiery light, the town looked like a fairytale village, the two-story, slate-roofed houses frowning down as the revelers passed as if sternly watching their frivolity. Store signs swung in the breeze, their chains creaking softly.

Ahead of them, the castle rose up from behind its curtain wall, towers and battlements thrust upwards into the sky. It was said that Orakio himself had walked its halls a thousand years ago, and looking at the towers by night, it seemed believable. The sight was one to raise thoughts of bold knights, heroic princes, and dragons--at least by day. By night the stories it called to mind were the kind with wicked nobles, Layan witches, and captive maidens and princesses.

Of course, a princess was precisely what Lena Di Satera was, the only child of King Rand and Queen Lissara and heiress to the western half of this world. Naturally, her parents believed it would be a fine thing if she were to marry the heir to the eastern half, and so a childhood betrothal had been arranged between Lena and Prince Rhys of Landen. This night, however, would be the first time she would actually get to meet him.

"What kind of man do you think he is?" she asked her parents, not for the first time.

"I'm sure he's a fine boy," replied her father. "He's supposed to be a fine swordsman and a brave knight."

The queen chuckled warmly.

"That's not what Lena means, dear. She wants to know about his feelings, his personality. Is he kind or cruel, gentle or harsh, light-hearted or stern, strong-willed or weak? Will he make a good companion for her--is he someone she can come to love?"

"Well, er, as to that..." King Rand tugged at his collar, and the two female members of his family burst into laughter.

"Men!" Lissara laughed. "Still," she said, patting her husband's shoulder, "they have their uses."

"Thanks ever so, dear."

The great gate, emblazoned with the sunburst symbol of Orakio, was raised high, and the royal coach of Satera swept through the portals, the burnished steel armor of the escorting knights gleaming in the torchlight.

"We'd better get our masks on," the king advised. "We're almost there."

Suiting actions to words, he slipped his black domino mask into place. Queen Lissara also put on her mask, which was ornate and birdlike to go with her elaborate harpy costume.

"I hope the feathers haven't been damaged," she murmured, examining her arms. "Marta spent quite a long time making this and I don't want her hard work to go to waste."

"You look wonderful, Mother," Lena said. She herself was dressed as a Layan sorceress from a thousand years ago, dressed in an elaborate robe with a pair of those curious bladed weapons, slicers, hanging at her belt. Lena had received basic training in self-defense, something any royal was well-advised to learn, but she couldn't even begin to understand how a slicer could be effectively used. Since the idea of her costume was to look daring and mysterious, even seductive, she'd considered donning a wig to cover her own close-cut brown hair, but decided against it. Lena didn't want the impression she made on her future husband to be all masks and moonlight, just as it was the real Rhys she wanted to get to know.

The carriage drew to a stop in the courtyard, and a servant opened the door. The king got out first, then offered a hand down to his wife and daughter, whose fancy skirts encumbered them.

The castle was made of unrelieved stone, floors, walls, and ceilings alike, and would have looked very cold and forbidding had it not been for the care taken with the decoration and fittings. Tapestries in brilliant colors hung from the walls, as did armorial trophies, while lamps burned sweet-scented oil and had their light cast back by glittering mirrors. The servants wore their finest livery, and the guards present were dressed in ornate, ceremonial armor. Strains of orchestral music drifted through the broad hallways, and the air of pageantry was everywhere.

The castle's grand hall, where the ball itself was being held, was if anything a more glorious sight. The musicians had been placed on an improvised stage at the south end of the room, and filled the hall with round dances, waltzes, and minuets. Along the sides were tables laden with food and refreshments, while throughout the room were the assembled nobility of Landen, Ilan, and Yaata, each more fantastically costumed than the last. A satyr danced with a lady knight, a wizard spoke to a dragon, a turbaned giant whispered soft words into the ear of a scantily clad catwoman. It was thrilling and exciting, and the faint hint of decadence only intrigued Lena the more.

Eagerly, the princess scanned the room for any sign of Rhys, trying to recognize him from the miniature portrait she'd been given. Then, at once, her eyes lit upon a figure. He had short blue hair, though his bangs swept across his forehead, and wore a black mask that left exposed a strong chin and--Lena thought with a blush--lips that looked just right for kissing. His garb was somber, head-to-toe black with highly polished breastplate, greaves, vambraces, and gauntlets. Only the ankle-length white cape that descended from his shoulders lent color to the costume, and Lena wondered for a moment why he wore such a grim outfit, until she saw that the costume sword at his waist was also jet-black.

_Of course!_ she realized. _He's come as Orakio. _Some might see it as sacrilegious to take on the identity of the great hero who'd given his name to their people, but the royal line of Landen was said to be descended from Orakio himself, so in Rhys' case it was no more than attending as a famous ancestor.

Should she go over and introduce herself? No, perhaps not yet. The unmasking was at midnight, so why not take advantage of these hours of mystery? She could approach Rhys, talk with him, dance a set, and enjoy the moment of romance that the masquerade lent them. She kept her eyes on him. Once this set ended, she would approach the prince.

~X X X~

The Prince of Landen thanked his partner, a young lady from Ilan, for the waltz and escorted her from the floor, but he did it in something of a distant, distracted fashion. His attention wasn't on the girl, or the dancing, or the music. Rhys felt a curious atmosphere to the masquerade, an air of mystery and tension, and he could not place its source.

Of course, something of that was only to be expected. The entire purpose of a masked ball was to generate just that, an atmosphere of mystery and romance, where under the cloak of anonymity people could throw off the constraints of their public life and, at least until midnight, be free to be whomever they wanted.

That wasn't all, though. He'd been to masquerades before, as his mother insisted on holding at least one each year. Tonight, there was something different. It was as if the very essence of the masque had taken shape in the great hall of Landen Castle.

_Something,_ the prince was sure, was going to happen before the night was through.

Unfortunately, the sensation was making Rhys less than the most genial partygoer or dance partner. He did regret it; while he knew himself to be hotheaded Rhys did try to do his duty to the throne. He decided to get himself a glass of punch, perhaps a canapé, and use the time to observe the ball. He might be able to narrow down just _what_ was giving him the strange sensations he felt.

As he turned towards the food tables, his shoulder collided with that of a guest.

"Pardon me," he said at once.

"On the contrary, my prince, the fault is all mine."

The guest wore a curious costume, a simple gray hooded cloak, tattered at the edges. His mask was odd, too, full-faced, with lenses over the eyes and a kind of flexible tube for a mouth, a kind of breathing apparatus, perhaps. The mask distorted his voice, giving it a hissing quality that Rhys found vaguely unwholesome. Indeed, between the changed voice and the shapeless form under the cloak the guest might as easily have been a woman.

"You know me?" he said.

"All the world knows of the Prince of Landen," replied the cloaked masquer. "All the world...and those beyond."

Rhys' eyes widened behind his mask.

"Beyond?"

The stranger laid long fingers on Rhys' arm.

"I can see many things, my prince. This is a momentous night, a night that shall ring out through history."

"What are you talking about?" Rhys asked, confused.

"The future, my prince, the future. This night is only the beginning. Tonight, your life will be changed forever."

"I don't understand. Are you some kind of fortuneteller?"

"Yesss...you could say that. Will you hear my words of portent?" the stranger hissed.

Rhys wanted to say no. There was something about this person, man or woman, that seemed wrong. He couldn't quite place it; perhaps it was the strange voice, but in any case it was an alien sensation that made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. It reminded the prince of what he'd thought earlier, about the spirit of the masquerade incarnating itself.

Perhaps he should have walked away, feeling as he did, but Rhys did not lack courage. Besides, he'd wanted to find out what made this night unusual, and the stranger seemed to know.

"Yes," the prince decided, "I'll hear you out."

"Very well. You have just made a choice, and tonight you shall be offered one other. You can turn your back on all that I've seen, and this may be wise, for it will take a brave heart to face a future where great weight rests upon your deeds. If you possess the courage, my prince, then follow the girl with the hair of flame. You will not find her when you seek, but what you do find will make your life until now seem as nothing."

Rhys blinked in confusion. This sounded like a fortuneteller's trick, a veil of words drawn over plain meaning, but it was different, too. The "girl with the hair of flame"--that was specific, and so were the instructions.

"This girl--is she here now?" he asked, scanning the ballroom for any sign of her. The cloaked masquer did not answer, and when Rhys turned back to see why, the stranger had gone. He, or she, wasn't slipping away into the crowd, and there were no nearby exits to have escaped through or furnishings to conceal himself behind. He had just...vanished.

_Mystery in the air, indeed. _

He asked a number of people whether they'd seen the gray-cloaked guest, all the while keeping an eye out for both him and the girl he'd spoken of. Both, however, proved as elusive as phantoms. A couple of people thought they remembered seeing the cloaked stranger, but none was sure, and it seemed that no one else had spoken with him.

Reluctantly, the prince was forced to abandon the mystery and return to the ball. This was an important social event for the throne, and he didn't want to embarrass his mother by generating needless gossip. Rhys danced with a number of partners, the most interesting of which proved to be a clever brunette in a witch's costume. They talked amiably during the course of a dance, and it seemed only natural that as the music changed to a waltz, they should step into each other's arms and continue together. Her steps were a bit clumsy at first, like one who'd only been partnered by her dancing-master, but she soon began to move with the melody. Rhys had all but forgotten the cloaked seer when he caught sight of a flash of gray. He turned his head, but it was only a gray cape worn by a man in a knight's costume. His distraction was, however, noticed by his dance partner.

"What's wrong, Prince Rhys?"

"You know me?"

"Only you or your father would attend dressed as Orakio," the girl said. "It would be in exceedingly poor taste otherwise."

"You have a point." Rhys paused thoughtfully and said, "Well, perhaps two heads are better than one. Earlier this evening, I had a strange encounter, and now I can't see the person anywhere."

"It sounds quite mysterious."

"It was, and a bit...disquieting, besides." He told her about the stranger, though not the details of their conversation. For some reason, he felt that those words were for his ears alone, and that to share them would destroy their magic. Rhys didn't know where the thought had come from, but it burned within him like a talisman.

"Perhaps," the girl in Layan dress said slowly, thinking things through, "perhaps...it was a double costume?"

"A _double_ costume?"

"Yes!" she said, warming to her theory. "He or she puts on a costume, something close-fitting, and a small mask like a domino. Then over it they pull a big, shapeless, hooded cloak and a full-face mask, concealing everything. The person approaches you and acts very ominous and mystic, then when your back is turned, whips off the cloak and mask and steps back into the crowd looking like someone else entirely." She giggled. "It's a good joke. I wish I'd thought of it!"

It was a good idea. The cape and mask could be easily disposed of, dropped behind a potted plant or into a trash bin, and Rhys would never know.

"You're probably right," he said.

"I'm glad I could help."

"You have the advantage of me, though. Will you tell me your name?"

She pursed her lips, then shook her head.

"No, I think you shall have to wait until the unmasking," she decided.

"Vixen!" Rhys accused playfully.

"Sweet words and flattery shall not win me over!" the girl replied archly, her brown eyes teasing. "Tonight I am a witch and I shall act like one." Rhys found himself very interested in finding out who she was. The end of the dance came all too soon, and as even at a masquerade it was not done to dance with the same person more than twice consecutively, the prince regretfully abandoned her to her next partner. He stood looking at her as the next set began.

"You find her interesting?"

The voice was rich and throaty, coming from just behind his right shoulder. Rhys nearly jumped; this was the second time someone had been able to slip up behind him. True, a ballroom was not a battlefield, but still, a trained knight and especially a prince should be more aware.

"That's a very personal question," he snapped, nettled, and spun to face the woman.

If there ever was a "girl with hair of flame," this was she. Rhys had seen a number of redheads at the ball, but this one's hair was a brilliant yellow-orange, the exact shade of a candle's fire. She wore a loose tunic and trousers of diaphanous pink cloth that displayed a lithe body and left her feet bare. Her mask was a mere veil of the same translucent material worn just below the eyes. It was a dancer's costume, designed to excite and tantalize, but Rhys found himself less interested in the woman herself than in what she might mean for the future.

"I prefer to be...personal," she replied, eyes dancing. A wicked smile was on the lips beneath the veil. "I hope you do as well."

"Pardon me?"

"I enjoy these masquerades, but they lack privacy. Talking on a dance floor, surrounded by dozens of others is inhibiting."

"Oh?" Rhys had a good idea of what was coming next.

"Quite so. I would like to speak more with you...in private. Why don't we meet, say, an hour and a half from now...by the river, outside the town?"

"We'll miss the unmasking."

"No," she purred, "I don't think so." She turned and walked sinuously away.

An assignation, then. Such offers were not uncommon for Rhys; he was an attractive young man and his position was, to some, even more attractive. He was not inclined to follow through on such invitations; being betrothed since childhood to the Princess of Satera gave him a certain perspective. He also found the wanton greed in the veiled dancer's offer unappealing. There was no romance to it, merely...hunger.

Ordinarily the prince would, therefore, have simply ignored the offer. An evening of waiting alone on the beach instead of being at the masquerade would have been a fit rejoinder to the dancer's tacit assumption that Rhys would accept her invitation. Tonight was different. The stranger's advice to "follow the girl with the hair of flame" rang in his mind.

The question was, did he have the courage to follow the riddle to its solution? Did he even have the desire to? It would be very easy for Rhys to let the cloaked guest and the fire-haired woman play their games, then ignore them. That brunette in Layan garb intrigued him; he'd like to know who she was.

Rhys had just about made up his mind to do exactly that, ignore the two and get on with his life, but something held him back just short of that decision. He looked at the masked revelers, at the glittering chandeliers above, and the mystery and romance of the masked ball reasserted itself. He'd been so sure that _something_ was going to happen, and now, on the verge of that event, he was retreating, drawing back? What kind of coward was he?

The prince slipped away from the ballroom and returned to his own chambers, where he replaced his costume sword with a steel fighting blade. This might well be a trick, a ploy to lure Rhys into the open, away from any protection. There were those who had violated Orakio's Law in the past for the sake of political gain. Rhys would be taking no chances.

As he left the castle and descended the hill towards the riverbank, another thought came to him. If the girl had been right about the double-costume trick, then the gray-cloaked stranger and the dancer might have been one and the same, the fortuneteller's act a clever bit of stage managing to get Rhys out on the moonlit beach with her. If so, she'd soon be on the receiving end of a piece of his mind!

The north river which divided the sister kingdoms of Landen and Satera from one another was odd, as rivers went. Unlike Landen's other rivers, it seemed more to be a narrow channel of the sea. It rose and fell with the tide, and its banks were strips of sandy beach. This made it a popular trysting-place for young couples from Landen, who could find relative privacy among the dunes. When Rhys arrived, he could see no sign of the veiled woman, so he began to walk along the shore, looking into the little valleys between the dunes. The light from the twin moons was bright, and the waves lapped softly at the sand as he walked.

Then, Rhys made out the silhouette of a huddled form lying near the water's edge. As he got closer, he recognized it as a person, still and unmoving. He dashed closer, and saw that it was a woman, but most emphatically not the one who had invited Rhys out onto the beach. This one was slender and fine-boned, with a delicate, ethereal beauty and hair the pale, cyan blue sometimes seen in ice floes. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell all but imperceptibly with the shallowness of her breathing. She wore a blue dress, once fine but now torn and rent by whatever had brought her here. In more than one place, her skin was but and bruised.

"Miss?" He shook her shoulder lightly. "Miss?"

She did not wake, did not even respond with a cry or moan. It was possible that she shouldn't be moved, but Rhys couldn't leave her there, and she obviously needed a doctor's attention. He scooped her up in his arms, and noted as he did so the dry patch in the wet sand where she had lain. That meant that she'd been laying there during the previous low tide and stayed there during the high tide, keeping the spot dry while the water swirled around her. Her clothing was still damp from the tide and clung to her limbs. As Rhys crossed the sand, the image filled his mind of the girl lying on the beach, unconscious, as the hot sun beat down and the waves crashed around her. She was lucky not to have drowned.

"Don't worry," he told her as his steps took them back towards the town and a doctor. "I'm with you now. I won't let anything happen to you."

~X X X~

"Will it work?" the flame-haired woman asked eagerly. One of the Fatima, a school of battle-dancers of the city of Lashute, she was as fiery by temperament as her appearance and her magic were.

"I cannot say." The cloaked wizard's voice was weary. Even for him, one of the Malefic, of the highest order of the Imagio Mages who served Rulakir and through him their dark god, casting the shadows of himself and the dancer to far-off Landen and giving them physical form had been exhausting. Thankfully, he had only been required to send one at a time and not both of them at once or he wouldn't have been able to manage it.

"You cannot say!" the Fatima shouted. "We spend all this time and energy on Lord Rulakir's plan and you, you withered corpse, cannot say if it will succeed?"

"Calm yourself," hissed the magician, trying to conceal his weakness. "We have taken the girl. We have brought her to Landen, and arranged for Prince Rhys to find her under the circumstances we feel best suited to motivate him. We have made certain that her family knows where she has gone. _We can do no more. _All we can do now is hope that _their_ actions will be as we expect. Rhys, Maia, Lyle, Lena...any of them has the power to choose another path and foil our plans."

Beneath his mask, the Malefic's long-dead lips curved upwards in a smile.

"But I do not think that they will."

~X X X~

The orchestra had stilled while the great tower clock chimed out the hour, one peal after another, until all twelve had sounded. On the dais, the king and queen of Landen removed their masks, the symbol for everyone to do so. Heroes and goblins, monsters and cyborgs again became lords and ladies, merchants and artisans, knights and courtiers. The Layan witch was once more Princess Lena Di Satera.

Lena looked around excitedly for Prince Rhys. The two of them had hit it off splendidly! They'd only talked once, but they'd shared two danced and the conversation had been amiable. Rhys had even seemed interested in what she'd had to say, unlike some noblemen who looked down their noses at a girl who didn't share their love for hunting and battle.

She couldn't see Rhys anywhere, though. Lena had expected him to be on the dais with his parents, but he hadn't appeared there, and she didn't see him anywhere in the ballroom either. Everywhere people were laughing and gasping with surprise, saying things like, "I knew it was you!" or "Why, I thought you were..." but Lena could not see the black-armored Orakio costume among the gaiety.

_It's the height of the party!_ she thought. _Where could he have gone?_

As the queen signaled the musicians to start again, and the unmasked revelers paired up for the next set, Lena now looked, on a crazy hunch, for a person in a shapeless gray cloak, but of course, she found no such guest, either.

_Oh, Rhys. What's happened to you?_

~X X X~

"You can come in now."

Rhys all but rushed up the stairs to the doctor's room. The girl lay in bed, her eyes still closed, her breathing slow and regular.

The prince rounded on the doctor, spinning around so quickly that the green-haired woman in her neatly pressed white uniform took a step back in shock.

"Is she going to be all right? What happened to her?"

The doctor held up her hand, forestalling his questions so she could explain.

"Physically, she seems fine. There are no internal injuries, no broken bones. Her right ankle was sprained, but a dose of Monomate took care of that as well as the superficial cuts and bruises. I'd say that she's obviously suffering from exhaustion and exposure, but luckily she doesn't appear to have gone into shock. She's lucky you came along when you did, though. The nights are cold and the water at high tide would have made it worse."

A small cry issued from the sleeping girl's lips, the first sound Rhys had heard from her. Her eyelids slowly raised, then suddenly she yelped and sat bolt upright in the bed. She held the soft hospital robe close around her and her gaze flickered here and there, taking in everything. She had, Rhys noticed, eyes like twin jewels the same color as her hair.

"Where...where am I? Who are you people?" she asked nervously, her body trembling with fear. Small wonder, Rhys reflected, after waking up in a strange room surrounded by people she'd never met.

"This is a doctor's residence in the town of Landen," Rhys said. "My name is Rhys; I found you lying on the beach and brought you here." He decided to omit his title; that could come later, and he didn't feel like playing "You're not really a _prince,_ are you?" He indicated the doctor. "This is Dr. Elwynn. She's been taking care of you."

"Landen," the girl murmured, trying out the sound of it, a look of puzzlement on her face.

"What's your name?" Rhys asked.

"It's...Maia..." The confusion was still there, almost as if she was stumped by a riddle but knew the solution ought to be obvious.

"Where are you from, Maia?"

"From? I'm...I'm from..." Her eyes widened in shock. "I don't know!"

"Could it be Satera? Ilan? Yaata?" Rhys suggested, hoping the names would strike some chord in her mind.

"I don't know! None of them sounds familiar! I can't remember a thing about who I am or where I'm from," she whimpered, "but only my name." Tears began to flow from her scintillating eyes, genuine ones of shock and fear.

"I'm sorry," Rhys said, ashamed. "I didn't mean to press."

"Yes...you said that you found me lying on a beach?" Maia asked tentatively.

"Yes, I did, on the riverbank just below the town."

"How...how did I get there?"

Rhys shook his head.

"I don't know. I've never seen you before in my life."

"All right, enough questions," Dr. Elwynn interrupted. "What Maia needs is food and proper rest. There will be plenty of time in the morning to address the question of her amnesia--_after_ we take care of her body's health."

"Then, I'll be back tomorrow...if, that is, you'd like me to come," Rhys added hesitantly.

"Oh, I don't mind. In fact, I...I think I'd like that very much." Maia dropped her eyes shyly.

"Now, now, you two. _That_ can also wait until tomorrow."

As Elwynn hustled the blushing prince into the hall, away from the equally red-faced Maia, Rhys knew then and there that he was going to do whatever it took to insure Maia found out who she was and where she had come from.

The stranger had been right. Rhys' life _had_ changed forever.

~X X X~

_A/N: In the city of Lashute, during the third generation, the minions of Dark Force cackle about how they arranged everything to get Rhys and the second-generation character to unseal the passages between worlds and draw the moons closer to free Lune and Siren. For any of this to actually be their handiwork, they had to kidnap Maia, arrange for her to be found by Rhys under circumstances that would lead them fall in love (to motivate him to pursue the quest to rescue her, a strong personal motive was necessary). Quite the Xanatos Roulette, if you ask me, but it gave rise to this fic. The childhood betrothal between Rhys and Lena (which Rhys abandoned when he became engaged to Maia the first time), while not mentioned in the English game, is apparently part of their actual backstory._

_The description of the riverside's beach-like appearance comes from the picture of Maia washed up on the beach from the game's title sequence (the one that runs if you don't push Start at the title screen)._


	3. Resurrection Men

_A/N: I'm still not quite sure how my desire to write a story about body-snatchers in the style of the early 1800s ended up as a _Phantasy Star III_ fic...You'll note, by the way, that this story takes place barely before Rhys's quest even starts, while he's still in the world of Landen._

~X X X~

Vinson Gant paced back and forth restlessly, his heels clicking in staccato beats off the bare stone floor. Carpet would have been more pleasant to walk on, and deaden the sounds of his footfalls that even he found irritating, but would have been impossible. The beakers and pipettes of multicolored liquids, the flaming lamps over which fluids in glass tubes bubbled, and the steel trays set out for use in dissection all marked the room as an alchemical laboratory. Caustic spills and vile-smelling stains would have long defaced any carpet laid beneath.

Once again Gant looked over at the dully ticking clock set out on his recording desk. Since precise timing was vital for many of his experiments he had obtained the finest timepiece available in Ilan, and so he knew that when it read eleven minutes past two this was the actual hour. Where _were_ they? He'd told them repeatedly that he absolutely _had_ to have this delivery by two-thirty! Without it, days of work and hundreds of meseta's worth of reagents would go to waste! It would mean delays, intolerable delays!

"Where could they _be_? They've rarely been later than midnight before, quarter to one at the latest! What's _keeping_ them?" Gant did not even realize that he'd spoken aloud in his agitation.

Time crept agonizingly by, the ticking clock echoed by the sharper, higher-pitched noise of Gant's footfalls. A minute passed, then two, then three, then four. Finally, a new sound cut through Gant's awareness, a dull, muffled thump. The sound of a gloved hand knocking softly on the back door!

With a speed one would not have expected from his withered frame, Gant sprang to the door, slid back the two heavy bolts holding it shut, and flung the iron-bound wood portal open.

"Quickly, _quickly_!" he hissed, beckoning to the two men who stood with their heavy burlap sack between them.

"We've done this before, Doctor," grumbled the elder of the two brothers. Named Atto, he was as always stubble-faced and his clothes were rumpled. Rikh, the younger one, was a bit shorter and plumper but more nattily dressed.

"Why are you so late?" Gant asked as they brought the sack inside. He quickly closed and relocked the door. "It's almost--"

"Two-thirty; we know. You've got fifteen more minutes before you've got a right to whine. We ought to be the ones complaining. You're lucky you're getting this at all."

Atto and Rikh levered the sack up onto a table. The elder brother loosed the drawstring.

"Yeah!" Rikh contributed, his voice surprisingly shrill. "The first couple times they just put on some new locks and had a watchman make rounds, but after that third job we pulled for you last week, the town guard took things seriously! There were four soldiers and two cyborgs on guard, and all the doors and windows locked and bolted! We were lucky to be able to sneak in!"

"Darn lucky if you ask me," Atto added. "If those three watching the back hadn't all gone after our little diversion at once, we'd never have gotten in at all."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed that watchman last time, then!" Gant snapped. "I hired you to steal bodies, not make fresh ones."

"Well, I think you'll be happy with this one," Atto said, and he pulled down the sack to reveal the figure of a young, red-haired woman. She was dressed in the same shade as her hair, though with white gloves and boots, and there was a faint creamy blush to her skin not ordinarily associated with the bloodless dead.

"My word!" Gant exclaimed. "Is she...I mean, she almost looks alive!"

"Yeah. Sure she's alive. Lots of people go on living with no breath or heartbeat."

"'Course, we made sure of that," Rikh chipped in. "Sort of a guarantee for the merchandise."

"What do you mean?" Gant rounded on him. "If you've damaged the specimen in any way with your clumsy perversions..."

The younger resurrection man took a sudden, involuntary step back, as if there was something in Gant's vehemence that was more than anger. Perhaps there was; Atto and Rikh might have stolen corpses from the morgue, but they did it for money. Their inhumanity lay in their lack of respect for the dead, but neither one could conceive of actually _wanting_ a dead body. They certainly didn't understand Gant's experiments in the subtleties of alchemy, their vital importance to the Orakian people.

Most people did find the unknown to be fearful.

"He just means," Atto interjected, "that we held a pillow over her face to smother her, just in case we'd got it wrong. No damage to the goods, Doctor."

"Yes," Gant replied, slowly nodding. "Yes, I suppose so. It would not do, say, to have a living cataleptic to work on. Such things have occurred before."

"Hadn't you better be paying us our money? It's getting closer to two-thirty, and I'm sure you want to be on with your work."

Atto was right. The alchemist had allowed himself to become distracted by the corpse when time was of the essence! He all but sprang to the battered roll-top desk where the clock sat and pushed aside experimental journals and ledgers so he could reach out a steel strongbox from one of the pigeonholes. This he unlatched--he never bothered with the lock--and began to count out meseta.

"Here!" he said, turning to the men. "Five hundred for each of you, as promised." He poured the money into their outstretched hands.

"One thousand meseta? Is that all corpse-theft and murder go for these days?" a woman asked, her voice carrying an almost wistful note in it.

"Guards!" Gant exclaimed. "You fools; you were followed!"

"We weren't!" Rikh protested. "We took every precaution. No one could have followed us unseen!"

"I didn't have to follow you."

The three men watched in wide-eyed horror as the corpse sat up.

"Not only have I witnessed your theft, but also the purchase of a stolen corpse. Plus, I have your confessions to previous acts, including the murder of the watchman. You'll certainly pay the price for breaking Orakio's Law."

The two body-snatchers reacted in exactly opposite fashions. Rikh shrank back into the nearest corner with a shriek of fear at this risen corpse who spoke of judgment, while Atto instead leapt at her with a drawn knife and a wild yell.

She caught her attacker's upraised arm at the wrist, the arisen body's strength much greater than her relatively slight frame would suggest. Her free hand struck out, stunning Atto with a single counterblow. She let him fall, then extended her claws, triple blades of steel sliding from recessed sheaths in her forearms.

"I think we should go along quietly, don't you?" she asked with mock politeness. Time was of the essence, after all.

"Wh-what are you?" Gant babbled.

"I am a combat cyborg, designation Mieu type. My master, Prince Rhys, thought your depraved crimes might be connected to the Layan fiend who stole his bride." She shook her head. "He won't be happy that we've wasted three days waiting for you to take the bait. Now please do surrender. As an android I am _technically_ exempt from Orakio's Law, but I'd still have to hate to kill you, especially since you all thought my organic sheath was so much like a living person's. After a few centuries, a girl really starts to worry if she's showing her age, you know."


	4. Love Is Not a Dream

_A/N: At the end of the first generation, Rhys can choose whether to marry Maia or Lena. Maia is the girl he was originally going to marry, who was snatched away on her wedding day, and for whose sake the player has spent the entire game up to this point running around doing things. Lena, on the other hand, joined the party and has very likely been irritating the heck out of the player by her near-total uselessness. I wrote this story to explore what kind of thinking Rhys might have been going through to choose Lena. You'll note, though, that every one of my other stories assumes that Rhys married Maia instead, so this can be considered AU from the rest of the tales._

_Continuity buffs will note the place where Maia stumbles over her words when mentioning her reunion with Lyle. She's keeping Lyle's secret here, that he was the dragon that took her from Landen Castle. This eventually comes out in Ayn's generation, but Lyle doesn't want Rhys to know, for whatever reason._

~X X X~

Rhys found Maia after twenty minutes of searching in a second-floor salon overlooking the coastline. The Prince of Landen wasn't quite sure what his status was in Cille Castle; as an Orakian, he was a hereditary enemy of the Layan people of Cille. He had come under arms, seeking to win back a girl kidnapped from the altar in her bridal gown. He had defeated the King of Cille by main force, basically to get him to sit down and listen. From that standpoint, he was an invader, perhaps even a conqueror.

Yet one of the chief reasons he'd come this far was the assistance of Lyle, Prince of Shusoran, the nephew of King Cille and himself a Layan. Despite all that, Rhys called Lyle "friend" and was proud to do so. It was Lyle who had first shown him that Layans were not the storybook monsters he'd believed them to be.

Or it had been Lyle who had first _knowingly_ done so, for the truth was that the kidnapped girl's intended bridegroom had been Rhys himself. Moreover, the girl had been no ordinary young woman. For all that her memory loss had denied her knowledge of everything about her past but her name, she, too had been a Layan. Maia was, in truth, the Princess of Cille.

As Rhys entered the salon, he heard the strains of music rising gently from a piano, its keys stroked by graceful fingers.

"Maia," he said, coming into the room. "I never knew that you could play."

Maia turned to him and smiled. Like the melody, it was a gentle smile, and kind.

"At the time, neither did I," she replied.

He came to stand next to her, and she turned back to the piano.

"You were Mystery to me," Rhys murmured.

Her hands gently brushed the ivory.

"I was Mystery to myself."

She started to play, then, a slow, delicate piece that seemed to carry with it an unbearable melancholy.

Rhys remembered the night he had found her. The waves had lapped at the shore softly under the light of the twin moons. She had looked so frail and helpless tossed up on the beach, clothing torn, body bruised and cut by her ordeal in the water.

"You were always so sweet and kind to me," Maia said. "I was a complete stranger and you opened your home, your family, your life to me. Not just you, but all the people of Landen. I had always thought that Orakians were cold and cruel, but you showed me this was not so. It's why Lyle helped you, you know."

"Oh?"

She nodded.

"When he--" Maia stumbled a bit, as if trying to choose her words carefully, then continued. "--when he and I were reunited, he couldn't believe it either, at first, that Orakians would be so kind to one they didn't know, whose past they could not trust. But, he came to see it, when he found that I had given my heart to one of them, and more than that, that it did not return to me once I had recovered my own memories."

"So, he strove to reunite us."

"Exactly."

The music drifted through deeper shades of sorrow and grief until it seemed to clasp Rhys's heart in a fist.

"Maia, what is this song? Is it a Layan piece?"

"In a manner of speaking. Actually, I composed it."

"You did? I had no idea you had such a talent." He smiled wryly. "Of course, we've been over that ground already. What is it called?"

"I named it 'Loveless.'"

Rhys shook his head.

"That's not really a good name for it."

Maia looked up at the prince with shining, ice-pale eyes that glittered a bit too wetly. Her fingers continued to weave their web of fearful sadness.

"Why not?"

"I don't think anyone could really appreciate this song until they have felt love, and lost it."

"You may be right at that, Rhys."

A tear gathered at the corner of her left eye, held there for an instant, and slid down her perfect cheek. Rhys could tell it was not the music that brought it, nor the memories the song evoked.

"I had something to tell you," he said, "but...I think perhaps I do not need to."

"No, you don't. I...I could see it in your face the first time you saw me here in Cille, right after your duel with my father. When we stood at the altar together, your eyes were alight with hope and happiness, but this time, all the sight of me brought you was pain. One of my maids tried to tell me it was because you knew now that I was a Layan, that you felt torn from me because of that, but...a woman knows these things, Rhys. She knows the difference between star-crossed love and the lack of feeling."

"I _do_ love you," Rhys said hastily, "and I always will, only..."

"Only not as a husband loves a wife."

Rhys's voice seemed choked off by some powerful force, and it was only with great effort that he could find the words.

"Maia, when I first saw you, I was swept away. You were lost in a strange land, with nothing but a name. You needed me."

"And I was beautiful."

"And you were sweet and kind and caring," he said almost sternly.

"So were you. I was lost and alone, and here you were, a handsome prince who took me under his wing and gave me everything I could want, who cherished and protected me. But you never opened your heart to me."

"It was glamour, enchantment," he agreed, his voice very soft now. "Not magic or Layan powers, but moonlight and mystery."

"And once I was gone, so was the spell. You were yourself again." She sighed deeply. "Love...love makes each absence a burden. You ache for the presence of the other person."

Her fingers trembled, and she missed a note.

"By Orakio, Maia, I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"No," she sniffled, tears now streaming down her face, "this is for the best. What if we'd married, and you'd awakened one day to the realization that...that you were bound for life...to someone...to someone you didn't love?"

Her song cut off suddenly, her hands crashing down on the keys in a fierce discord.

"Oh, Rhys," she wept. "If you did not love me, why did you finish your quest? Why did you come here?"

He did not respond at once, understanding that, perhaps more than any other time in his young life, truth mattered.

"At first," he began, "I was still infatuated. I would have done anything to get you back."

"But then?"

"Then you were in danger. You'd been kidnapped, not by men but by a monster. Who knew what could have happened to you?"

A faint smile brushed the princess's lips.

"Like when you found me on the beach, you came to my rescue. But surely when you learned I was the Princess of Cille and had merely been retrieved by...by my family..."

Rhys could have spoken of honor affronted by the theft of his bride. As a prince, he might have mentioned politics--that Landen could not afford to appear weak in the eyes of foreign cities and ambitious nobles. He could have referred to Layan-Orakian relations, of how on his quest he'd learned that the two groups were really just people, separated by memories of a war that they themselves hadn't fought, of the importance of healing that rift.

He did not speak of these things, though, because although each was, in its own way, a truth, none of them were what had moved him.

"I needed to see you again," Rhys said, and then feeling that more was called for, he added, "I had to speak to you in person, to tell you the truth."

"You didn't have to," Maia told him quietly. "I'd have learned. I'd have heard from Lyle."

"No, I did have to. Things would never be finished between us otherwise."

She rose fluidly from the piano bench, then came to face him.

"Yes...I suppose you're right, at that." Maia sighed heavily once more, then lightly laid her hand on Rhys's shoulder. "Thank you for having the courage to face me."

Maia raised herself on her toes and brushed her lips lightly against his cheek.

"When you marry your Lena--"

He gave a little start.

"How did you--?"

"I told you, Rhys; a woman knows these things," she said, her ironic smile tinged with sadness.

"Yes, I suppose you did."

"Just remember to cherish her daily. No matter what poets say, love is not a dream, but the most real thing you can imagine. I think you know the difference now."

Rhys did not reply, but slid his arms around the cyan-haired princess. He held her for a long moment, not in the protective embrace of hero to rescued damsel, or the passionate grasp of a lover, but in the warm hug one gives to a treasured friend.

Then, at last, he let her go.


	5. What's in a Name?

_A/N: This one was my very first _Phantasy Star III _fic. Set after Rhys's rescue of Maia, it touches on the way in which Layans and Orakians began to start seeing one another as more than just enemies, and works that theme into a theory about one of the game mechanics. Seriously, if nobody in the Landen dome has seen a Layan for over 1,000 years, then what on earth are technique shops capable of adjusting a Layan's technique balance doing in the Landen towns?_

~X X X~

Virak was a merchant, just as his father had been, just as _his_ father had been before him. In fact, to judge by his granther's stories, the family trade stretched back for generations. They'd practiced it here in Agoe for centuries, maybe even all the way back to the time of Orakio. It showed in his craftsmanship, he was certain. The secrets of the trade handed down from father to son, father to son kept them vital and alive.

"All right," he told his first customer of the day, "let's see what you've got here."

He selected an auto-screwdriver from his toolkit and quickly had the access panel off the stubby little Whistlebot.

"Its Foi technique just doesn't seem as effective lately," said the guard officer.

Virak nodded, inspecting the circuitry inside.

"Ohh, I see." He rummaged into his toolbox and came up with an insulated-grip probe. Carefully, Virak touched a tiny switch inside. "Yep, looks like there's a loose connection here. It's been upping the Tsu technique at the cost of Foi."

"Wait a second. This cyborg isn't equipped with a Tsu weapon."

"Doesn't matter. All the cyborgs use the same basic design for their tech grids. The part's interchangeable, so you can build a bunch of different cyborgs without having to retool the assembly lines. Now, since this Whistlebot's only got Foi, I presume you'd like its power maxed out?"

The guard nodded.

"Can't think of any reason not to. Uses the same amount of power either way."

That was the downside to the grid system, Virak thought. A set amount of power was fed into the grid, then divided among the various techniques according to the grid setting. The selected weapon was fired while the remaining power was shunted away, unused. That was the cost of the redundant internal design that allowed Agoe's cyborg plants to produce an army of the combat machines rapidly.

Virak quickly made the necessary adjustments to the grid, then repaired the loose connection that had created the problem in the first place.

"There you go," he told the officer. "That should have everything taken care of." Virak replaced the access panel. "It gives you any more trouble, just bring it on back."

"Thanks. Just glad we don't need it to keep Shusoran off our gates any more. That Prince Rhys showed up just in time to save our bacon...even if he had to marry a Layan to do it." The guard shook his head, obviously amazed that anyone would have the courage to do such a thing, even for the sake of a long-undreamed-of peace. Virak didn't answer; he'd gotten a chance to see the prince and his wife when they'd traveled to Agoe to help negotiate the treaty between the Layan and Orakian cities of Aquatica and Rhys didn't look like a man making a personal sacrifice to him!

"That'll be ten meseta, please."

"No problem." The guard flipped a coin at Virak, who plucked it out of the air. The waist-high cyborg followed him out of the shop, scuttling happily on its rollers.

_There I go, attributing human feelings to cyborgs again. _Well, it _was_ possible, just look at that Mieu who traveled with Prince Rhys, but not in anything Agoe could build.

"Yes, they're much more cute when they aren't shooting something."

Virak's head snapped up. He hadn't even noticed the stranger come in.

"Sorry," the man said. "Just caught the little grin you had there watching the cyborg, and took a guess. Was I wrong?"

"N-no..." Virak stammered out, taken by surprise. This new customer wore his lime-green hair pulled back in a ponytail, a long cape of steel mesh hung from his shoulders, and two short staves were worn at his belt.

In other words, the man was a Layan.

Sheepishly, Virak ran his hand through his hair.

"No, I guess I should be sorry. For staring, I mean. It's just that I've never had a Layan customer."

The Layan grinned quickly.

"Feels weird for me too. Of course, Shusoran and Agoe have been vacillating between armed hostility and open war for Laya knows how many generations, so I bet it's been pretty odd for everyone.

"Yeah, I know a bunch of people who think Prince Rhys was crazy."

The Layan chuckled.

"Oh, true. _We_ all think it was Prince _Lyle_ who was the insane one. Though at least those of us in Shusoran don't have to accept what the people of Cille did. It's their princess who married Prince Rhys, after all--and when the King abdicates, they'll be ruled by an Orakian!" He laughed at the irony, and the comment reminded Virak so much of what the guard had said that he laughed too.

The Layan extended his hand.

"I'm Julian, by the way."

"Virak." They shook hands. "So what can I do for you?"

"Well, this is a technique distribution shop, isn't it?"

"That's what the sign says."

"Good. I'd like to make a few changes. Increase Gires, I think, and maybe Forsa, too."

Virak nodded.

"Not a problem. Where are your cyborgs?"

Julian looked at him blankly.

"Cyborgs?"

"Yeah, the same ones you want me to work on."

The Layan shook his head. "No, I was talking about me. I need _my_ techniques adjusted."

"_Your_ techniques...oh, you're talking about those strange powers you Layans have. You call those techniques, too?"

"Yes...what do you mean, 'too'?"

"That's what _we_ call the weapon units we build into our cyborgs, techniques. I should have known something was up. It seemed kind of strange that a Layan would have a cyborg."

It was Julian's turn to look embarrassed.

"Well, I've got to admit I thought it was odd that there'd be a technique distribution center here, too, considering that you Orakians can't use techniques. Just a bit of cross-cultural misunderstanding, I suppose." He raised a hand in farewell. "It was nice meeting you, anyway."

"Yeah, you too," Virak replied absently. Something was nagging at the back of his brain, something his father had once said.

_Virak, what I'm going to teach you today isn't part of our business. It's something that's been passed down in our family for generations, though, a part of who we are. _A series of meditations, meant to focus the mind, or so Virak had always thought. _If you do these exercises with another, this is what they should do... _

"Hold on a second," he said, stopping Julian on his way out the door.

"What is it?"

"Just an idea. I'll be right back." He dashed upstairs and dug a small wooden box out of his nightstand. Virak brought it back down and took out two faceted crystal spheres about two inches across. "Do these look familiar to you?"

"Yes, of course. Those are the focus stones used...you mean, you can help?"

"Well, I'm not sure; I've never actually _done_ it before. When you get right down to it, until you came in here I didn't even know there was an it to do. Just kind of a leap of faith, I guess."

Julian grinned.

"So you want me to be your test subject?"

"Well, if you put it that way..."

Laughing, he dragged a chair over to the counter.

"Just a joke. This should be an interesting experience. Consider it an experiment in Orakian-Layan cooperation."

Virak gave the Layan the two crystals; Julian closed his fists and laid his hands on the counter, backs up. Nervously, Virak reached out and rested his own palms on the Layan's fists. The only time he'd actually done this was when his father had been teaching him the art; certainly, he'd never done it for a Layan.

He took a deep breath, then tried to steady his thoughts, to center them in the way he'd been taught. Virak pictured a castle in his mind, a fortress of glowing jewels...and then, _there it was_. Floating in the eye of his mind was a square, its sides made up of individual gem-blocks, blocks of sapphire, ruby, amber, and emerald.

It looked like a cyborg's weapons grid. The pattern was the same, the distribution. Increase one, decrease another. Exactly the same. Virak reached out with his mind, recognized which color represented each technique, and made the necessary adjustments. There was a sudden flash of light, and the vision was gone. Virak opened his eyes.

"Well," Julian said, setting down the crystals, "that seemed to go all right."

"I'm surprised. It was almost...easy. It worked exactly as I'd been taught, and I'm sure my father had never done it either."

Shaking his head, Julian replied, "No, I doubt he would. I doubt any Layan has been in this shop for decades at the least."

"It's strange that Layan-style technique adjustment should have been passed down like that. Only thing that _isn't_ weird is that we didn't know that was what it was. If we _had_ known, I'm sure that we'd have deliberately forgotten it."

"Makes me wonder."

"About what?"

"About if there'd be a kit of cyborg repair tools hidden away in some closet as a family heirloom in Shusoran's technique distribution shop."

Virak raised an eyebrow.

"Sounds like you don't think it's a coincidence."

"I've been starting to have funny thoughts about that ever since I learned that Laya's Law and Orakio's Law were the same thing. Now I find something like this...and you know, even the signs for tech distribution shops are the same in Layan and Orakian towns, too. The same for inns, healers, weapon shops, armories--everything."

"You're right; that _is_ strange. Makes you wonder..."

Julian nodded.

"Yeah, it does. I wonder if Orakio and Laya knew that peace would come some day, and so prepared us before they died by leaving us these little reminders that we aren't that different after all."

"Wait a minute. Why wouldn't they just tell us _then_?"

Maybe they couldn't?" the green-haired Layan replied with a shrug. "In the middle of a war, would anyone listen? Legends say that Orakio and Laya destroyed each other in the final battle."

"Ours, too...are you saying that it didn't really happen that way?"

"History is written by the survivors. It could be that people changed the stories over a thousand years, or that the end was just assumed, or it might have been deliberate deception. I don't know."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Virak decided. "Now that Layans and Orakians aren't at war any more, we'll find out some of those answers."

"Virak, I think you're right. Oh, hey, I almost forgot about taking care of the Forsa technique, too."

"Right." Virak reached to give Julian the crystals, then stopped and snapped his fingers in remembrance. "You know, I almost forgot about something too."

"What's that?"

Virak grinned.

"Technique distribution costs ten meseta."

Julian groaned and reached for his purse.

"Another similarity. Our Layan merchants always remember to make me pay, too!"


	6. Murder in Shusoran part 1

_A/N: Anybody who's followed my stories knows that I love mysteries, so it's probably not a surprise that I'd write one for Phantasy Star III._

~X X X~_  
_

There was a light in the window of the Windward Inn in Shusoran. The man inside had paid the extra fee for a private room, and he was staying up late.

Hate burned inside the man's heart, throbbed in his brain. It was a poison that lurked within his soul but came out in his writing as his pen scratched across the page. Each tainted word spewed onto the paper, an intense expiation of violence that could not be contained. At last he was done; he replaced his pen in its case and capped the inkwell, then blew out the lamp.

Before retiring, he crossed the darkened room to the window. As always when he was through writing, he was actually trembling with emotion. The man slid open the window and breathed in deeply, letting the night air soothe his nerves and calm him. He knew his work was important, but that did not mean he should lose control. That only cheapened what he did, cheapened the cause.

He smiled, taking another deep breath. Everything would begin in the morning, after all. The man had to be ready.

The thrust of the knife blade sliced into his thoughts, cutting them off abruptly with a spike of icy pain. Death came quickly; his body collapsed to the floor, sightless eyes still fixed on the future.

He had been right. Everything _would_ begin in the morning.

He just wouldn't be there to see it.

~X X X~

"A single knife wound. Neat, simple, no frills," summed up the doctor. Her neatly pressed white uniform was a stark contrast to the brutality of murder, cleanliness and control next to the blood and the stench of violence unleashed.

"Thrown through the window?" asked Sergeant Dayne Rathman, the Shusoran guard officer assigned to investigate.

The doctor tugged on her green braid, a habit she affected when she was trying to think something through.

"No, Dayne, I don't think so."

Dayne blinked.

"I don't understand."

"Well, when you throw a knife," Dr. Nyla Le Malisk explained, "it spins in flight. When it strikes a target, that spinning is stopped by whatever it hits. That extra rotational force tears open a slightly wider wound than this one. No, this was a straight thrust, driving up under the ribs and into the heart."

The guard scowled.

"Thanks a lot, Nyla. Let's see, the door was locked, but this is a ground-floor room. So, presuming that the body hasn't been moved..."

"I don't see any sign that it has."

"...then whomever stabbed him could have walked right up to the window, stuck the knife in, and walked away."

He crouched down next to the doctor.

"Mind if I get a look at the knife?"

"Go ahead."

He picked it up gingerly. There didn't appear to be any clues, no threads clinging to the hilt, no distinctively-colored hairs caught in a chink in the blade. It was a common steel-bladed utility knife, not even a hunting knife or steel combat knife. The kind of knife used for slicing open letters, cutting rope, even eating with when one was on a journey.

"Orakians favor knives in battle, don't they?" Dayne pondered.

"Soldiers with combat knives, yes. This blade could have been anyone's. It's not like we Layans never need to cut anything."

Dayne rose slowly to his feet.

"This wasn't used as a tool. It was used in battle, to kill another living human. Layans don't use knives to fight their enemies."

"Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you want to believe it?"

Nyla got up as well. There was nothing for her to do, not for the victim.

"Honestly? I don't know. Laya's Law has been broken. I don't like to think it was one of us."

"The Orakians have a law against killing, too; they call it Orakio's Law."

Those twin laws, Dayne knew, were why the Orakians and Layans of the world of Aquatica hadn't slaughtered each other long before. The Orakian cyborgs, machines designed for battle, and Layan monsters born and bred for combat had fought many times since the end of the great Devastation War of a thousand years ago, determining control over natural resources, but human warriors never entered battle against one another.

Holding back from killing, though, was not the same as tolerance. The two races detested one another; trade and commerce had been unthinkable. Peace had been a resting period between battles.

Until Rhys.

Sometimes, change comes from a wellspring of public opinion, forcing governments to yield. In Aquatica, though, change had come from above, thrust upon the people by their royal houses. Maia, only child of the King of Cille, a Layan land to the north of Shusoran, had gone and married an _Orakian_. Rhys, Prince of Landen, was from an entirely different world, and his quest to win his bride had been an epic, the kind of story that could be--and was--set to music and played in the common rooms of inns like this one. The heir to Shusoran's own crown, Prince Lyle, had aided Rhys on that quest, being a key part of his success.

Most of the people of Cille and Shusoran had gone along with it grudgingly. Peace was a valuable commodity, and trusting to Orakio's Law had always been a nervous matter. The Orakians of Agoe and Rysel had gone along, too, for much the same reasons. Old hatreds died hard, though, and it was difficult for people to accept that a thousand years of enmity had been washed away by the simple pledge between husband and wife.

The fact was that there was a small but vocal minority who insisted upon clinging to the old ways, people who despised each other's race and would allow nothing to disturb the purity of their hate. Their message tugged at more hearts than people were willing to admit, hearts that while not wholly infected with prejudice still found it hard to trust their former foes.

Hearts like Dayne's.

He had to admit it to himself; he _wanted_ an Orakian to be guilty. It was much easier to believe that an outsider could be guilty, a stranger with odd cultural peculiarities, than that one of his own would violate Laya's Law. Murder was not an unknown crime in Shusoran, but it was very rare; the last had been nearly seven years ago.

Murder like this was the worst thing Dayne could imagine. Not a killing done in the heat of battle or a fit of temper. No, this had been cold-blooded. Step up to the window. Thrust the knife home. Leave the blade behind so as not to be seen with a bloody knife. Walk calmly into the night. A chilling and brutal crime, and yet so simple.

Nyla was looking down at the room's writing table, a frown taking shape on her pretty and girlish face.

"I don't think an Orakian did this," she said.

"Oh?"

Mutely, she tapped the pile of stacked pages. They were not piled neatly, but in a rough heap, as if the writer had been in a hurry, or in the grip of strong emotions, flinging one page aside in his rush to get to the next.

"Listen to this," the doctor said, reading. "'We must not let ourselves be led astray by the carnal urges of a debased prince.' And here: 'A true follower of Orakio would never permit contamination by the Layan plague.' Or this: 'The peril of losing our souls has grown beyond even what Orakio foresaw. It may be necessary to abandon Orakio's Law in order to purge our fair land of the Layan cancer that seeks to overwhelm us.'"

"He wrote that?" Dayne pointed to the corpse.

Nyla took out the pen and wrote a few words on a blank page.

"The ink's the same, at least."

"We ought to give a medal to whomever killed this filth."

Nyla glared at him.

"Is that what you really believe, Dayne?"

The guardsman sighed.

"No, I suppose not. If Laya's Law has been broken, then the killer is no better than that worm."

He glanced down at the body.

"And I guess," he admitted grudgingly, "that if we don't do our utmost to catch that killer, then neither are we."

Sounds of a commotion from outside caught the guard and the doctor's attention.

"You can't go in there, sir!" protested the innkeeper.

"Don't tell me what I can and cannot do, Layan!" There was a scuffle, short and quick, the innkeeper no doubt being shoved out of the way, and then the door burst open. "Abel, what are these--"

He broke off as he caught sight of the body laying on the floor. Dayne smoothly moved over to cut the newcomer off from coming further into the room.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant; he just forced his way by," apologized the innkeeper from behind the new arrival.

"So I see," Dayne said.

The stranger's momentary silence was broken as he apparently found his tongue, rounding on the uniformed guard sergeant.

"What have you done to Abel, you Layan dog?"

Dayne's eyes narrowed.

"_I_ have 'done' nothing. Someone killed this man last night."

"_What_?" Shock filled the newcomer's face. He was not unhandsome, though a bit on the thin side, and there was zealotry burning in his eyes. He tried to run to the body, but Dayne blocked the man's way, his strong right arm pulling him back.

"This is a crime scene," he said. "I'm making an investigation. If you care about seeing justice done, you'll understand that we can't have you tracking into the room and upsetting possible evidence."

"Justice?" he sneered. "I don't see justice here. I see a Layan pig who destroyed a good and loyal Orakian covering up the true reason for his death on behalf of your master. Abel Godley is the first martyr to the cause of a true Orakian civilization, and all your lies will not be able to wash his blood from Layan hands!"

He tried to rush forward again, but Dayne steered him out of the door with greater size and strength.

"What I see is a little man who ought to know better," the guard said flatly. "Our most sacred law has been broken. Supposedly it's yours as well, though to judge by your friend's writings _some_ Orakians don't hold it in very high esteem. Do you share his belief that the time has come to set aside Orakio's Law?"

The man's thin face grew red.

"Are you accusing _me_ of this? Oh, you're sly, Layan, but you won't get away with it. The true inheritors of Orakio's way are here, and they shall not allow your lies to pass unchallenged!"

Dayne snorted derisively.

"Rant to someone who cares. I take it that you dent that this crime is your handiwork?"

"Yes, I deny it, for all the good it will go. You Layan pigs--"

"I said that I've heard enough of your ranting," Dayne cut him off. "All I want from you is your name and where you're staying in Shusoran--and believe me, if you lie about either one, things will go _very_ badly for you when we find out."

The man returned his glare defiantly.

"Terence Ballard. I have a room at the Southgate Inn, together with my fellow Sons of Orakio."

"Good for you. I suggest you go there and join them and leave me to do my job. We don't need your friend's filthy blood staining our city any longer than it has to."

Ballard probably had several more insults to offer to Dayne personally and Layans generally, but the guard didn't bother to wait to hear them. He spun on his heel, strode back into the victim's inn-room, and locked the door behind him to keep the fanatic out.

"It's starting already," he told Nyla. "The late Abel, here, apparently has a number of his friends in town."

"Do you really think they're responsible?"

Dayne shook his head.

"No, I don't. It makes a nice, neat solution, one Orakian fanatic killed by another. It would help discredit their whole reactionary movement. I don't think that's what really happened, though. Frankly, I couldn't get that lucky."

"What scares me," the doctor said, "is the possibility that a Layan did this, one who feels about Laya's Law the way this man did about Orakio's Law."

"That's what I'm afraid of, too," Dayne replied, nodding agreement. "That would turn Godley into a martyr, give his friends all the more reason to detest Layans. It also draws support to his cause, makes ordinary Orakians who are willing to try peace but not sure they can trust us that much more ready to slip back into the old ways."

He hooked his thumbs into his belt. Having to listen to Ballard spew mindless insults made him ashamed of his own thoughts earlier. It was too easy to cross over that line from caution into bigotry, especially with a thousand years of hatred ready to back him up.

"Not much we can do if that's the case," he admitted.

"You can catch the killer," Nyla pointed out. "If the right person is punished for the crime, it will be much better than if no one is and suspicions are allowed to fester."

Dayne couldn't argue with that.

"By the way, why are so many Orakian reactionaries here in Shusoran?" Nyla asked. "One man I understand, but a whole group of them in a Layan town?"

"There's some kind of trade conference going on at the castle," Dayne said. "It was _supposed_ to be kept quiet, but these things have a way of getting out. It starts this morning."

"So you think the Orakians are here to make trouble?"

"That would be my guess. Protests, rallies, a few riots, whatever they can do to stir things up and interfere with smooth negotiations between Cille, Shusoran, and Agoe. Our own fanatics are probably doing the same if they've heard about it too."

He scowled angrily, looking at the hate-filled manifesto lying on the desk.

"The wretch was probably writing his speech for whatever they had planned."

He made a cursory examination of the room for clues. About four hours' worth of oil had been burned in the oil lamp, which meant that the man had gone to bed at midnight and been killed sometime after. That presumed, of course, that the innkeeper, Sera, had filled the lamp full for her guest. When she'd summoned Dayne, she'd said that he had seen Godley going to his room after dinner at eight. Hopefully that was accurate; eyewitnesses could be mistaken and Dayne needed every bit of useful information he could get.

It probably was, though. Sera had struck Dayne as being competent and alert. Her business depended on taking care of her guests' needs, so she kept a good eye on the common room. If she said it was eight, then it probably was. The body had been found at seven, when the dead man had requested Sera to wake him up. That left a seven-hour window of opportunity.

The guard took a look at Abel's own knife just out of curiosity; it had been left, sheathed, on the nightstand. The design was similar to that of the murder weapon, cheap and utilitarian, with no ornamentation. The room key had been on the nightstand, too, before Dayne had relocked the door with it. That just added more confirmation to what the medical evidence showed, that death had occurred at the window and that had been how the murder got to his or her victim. Nothing else in the room caught his attention, so he turned his attention to the man's bag. Dayne found clothes and toiletries, mostly, but there was also a corked glass vial containing some sort of electric blue liquid.

"Too small for liquor," Dayne decided. "Nyla, why don't you take a look at this?"

The doctor took the vial, examined it, and sniffed the stopper.

"I don't know what it is," she said.

"Could you find out? I'd like to know if this is some noxious poison Abel was going to dump into a well or if it's just an Orakian shaving rinse."

"All right. I'll run a few tests."

"Thanks. I'm going to check the ground for footprints, and then I'll have to report back to the castle. The murder of an Orakian agitator just now is something the crown will probably want to deal with."

Death and politics, Dayne thought. That was one association left over from the Devastation War he could easily have done without.


	7. Murder in Shusoran part 2

News of the so-called secret trade conference was definitely out. Not one but two groups of angry protestors huddled in front of the castle gates, shouting curses at each other, at the castle walls, and at the rows of guards who held them back. Most of the time, they respected the ranks of steel-armored soldiers, but every so often they would surge forward and have to be forced back with the long staffs the guards carried. Dayne passed between the ranks and under the raised gate bearing the sign of Laya, entering the castle of Shusoran.

Commander Brenton of the royal guard was in the throne room, according to the first servant Dayne collared. That was good; this murder probably needed the attention of the crown, anyway.

The throne guards were on duty outside the closed doors, stern-faced in their formal armor.

"Is the Commander in there?" Dayne asked.

"He is."

"Is the conference in session yet?"

The throne guard shook his head.

"No; it's set to open at ten-thirty."

"Good, then I won't be interrupting," Dayne said, and before either of the guards could make a move, he pushed the door open and strode in.

The rakishly handsome Prince Lyle sat on his father's throne; he was the King of Shusoran's nominated representative at the trade talks and the King had left on a hunting trip in order that no one could try to undercut Lyle's authority by consulting him. A massive hardwood table had been set up in the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs with cushioned seats. King Rhys and Queen Maia of Cille already sat at the table. Burly Commander Brenton was talking with a red-haired woman wearing a scarlet unitard and white boots and gloves. In the background stood a black-haired man who appeared to be wearing heavy steel armor from neck to toe.

"What is the meaning of this, Sergeant Rathman?" Brenton barked, seeing his subordinate enter unbidden. "You are interrupting an important planning session for the conference."

"I have important news that Prince Lyle should hear as well." Dayne bowed to the prince as he spoke Lyle's name.

"That is my decision to make," the Commander said. "We have a chain of command."

"Let him talk," Lyle said. "This interests me, and besides, he's already here."

"Thank you, your Highness. As you're probably aware, there are Layans and Orakians both protesting this conference and the peace between races right outside the castle gates right now."

"Yes, I am aware of that."

"We all are," snapped Brenton. "It's why we have special guard arrangements in place, to keep the delegates safe."

"Well, someone isn't safe," Dayne said. "This morning, I was called to the Windward Inn because the innkeeper found one of her guests dead, by which I mean murdered."

That one caught everyone's attention. The commander's huffiness vanished at once; he at once became the professional military man. Lyle leaned forward on his throne, while Maia flinched and shuddered.

"The dead man's name was Abel Godley; he was one of the reactionary Orakians," Dayne continued. "His pals are outside the gate now, and will probably start hollering about the killing sometime soon. He was killed by a single knife thrust, so there's no chance of it being a natural death." He gave a short summary of the doctor's findings.

"Do you have any prime suspects?" asked the Commander.

"It could be a Layan fanatic, but I don't have any proof of that."

Lyle glanced at Rhys.

"We have to act fast," he decided. "The reactionaries could use the opportunity to discredit our honor, suggesting that Shusoran is letting the killer get away because of whom the victim was. They'll make this Godley a martyr to their cause." Lyle's deductions followed nearly the same lines as the sergeant's had. "We have to find the murderer, and quickly."

"Lyle," Rhys interrupted, "there's one other point. What if the killer turns out to _be_ Orakian?"

The prince's handsome face twisted in a snarl.

"You're right, Rhys. That opens up some nasty trains of thought."

Rhys nodded.

"We won't change the minds of the fanatics, not with logic, not even with indisputable proof. To them it's an article of faith that Layans are evil. The ordinary people, though...they'll see an Orakian zealot murdered and a Layan government accusing another Orakian of the crime. It wouldn't look good. A lot of people would be suspicious that you engineered a frame."

"I can see why," Lyle said. "The idea of an Orakian killer is so illogical that I didn't even think of it. It wouldn't matter how fair we were or how much proof was available. Some people would still be sure we were up to something."

"What you need," Maia suggested in a soft, lilting voice, "is an investigation by Orakians and Layans both."

Lyle nodded.

"You're right, cousin. That wouldn't convince the zealots; like Rhys said, nothing could. It would keep them from adding to their ranks with their twisted conspiracy theories, though." He paused, clenching his fist in frustration. "I just can't give police powers to guards from Agoe, though. My own people would resent it--our own reactionaries would see it as letting the enemies loose in our camp."

"Why not a cyborg?" Rhys suggested.

"Wren or Mieu, you mean?"

The new king of Cille nodded.

"That's right. _No_ cyborg is susceptible to Layan influence; the people of Agoe trust them. Frankly, they trust them more than they trust me. It would almost be like Orakio himself siding with Layans as a betrayal--the fanatics could never sell it to the people."

"Whereas," Maia contributed, "the Layans know that Wren and Mieu serve Rhys, and are therefore our allies. They aren't from Agoe, which Shusoran has fought for centuries. There will not be quite so high a level of distrust."

Lyle grinned rakishly.

"I like it," he declared.

"If I may offer a suggestion," said the armored man in a monotone voice that made Dayne realize with a shock that _he_ was the Wren cyborg they had discussed.

"Of course, Wren."

"I would advise that Mieu be the one assigned to this task."

"Why is that?" Rhys asked. "I'd have thought your technical skills would be useful in gathering evidence."

Had Wren been human, or equipped with emotions, he might have shaken his head or made some other sign of dissent, but Wren was not programmed to use human mannerisms.

"On the contrary," the cyborg stated, "I am not equipped for forensic analysis. Moreover, as the purpose of employing a cyborg investigator is to enhance public relations, it would be more efficient to utilize Mieu. Her personality, possessing an emotional capacity, is more sympathetic and attractive to the population, while not generating a drawback with respect to investigative capacity. In fact, she may be a more competent criminal investigator due to her enhanced understanding of human psychology and motivations."

"Thank you, Wren," said the red-haired woman with a shy smile.

"All right, then," Lyle decided. "Mieu, you will aid Sergeant Rathman in your investigations--unless, Commander, you would suggest another officer from our Guard?"

Brenton shook his head.

"Rathman's good at hunting criminals. That's why he's on the call list when there's trouble."

"Very well, Rathman it is. Sergeant, Mieu, you will report to King Rhys, Commander Brenton, and myself." He turned to Dayne and said, "Don't let me down, Sergeant. Peace between Shusoran and Agoe has been too long in coming as it is."

When a man's prince puts his trust in him...well, there was little one could say.

"I will, your Highness."

"Good."

Mieu walked forward towards Dayne, extending her white-gloved hand in greeting. The guard could see the recessed blades of her claws glinting in the back of her hand and imagined what kind of fearful damage they'd do to flesh and blood.

"Hello, my name is Mieu, as you've heard. It's a pleasure to be working with you."

Dayne hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand and took hers. Mieu's grip was firm, yet surprisingly soft, like a person with a strong grip rather than a machine, a piece of metal.

"It's good to meet you," he said, though he wasn't sure of that at all. Still, orders were orders, and he had a killer to catch.

"Thank you." She smiled. "Why don't you tell me what you've learned so far? That way you can get more used to working with a cyborg. I'm sure it's a new experience."

Dayne nodded.

"Yeah, you could say that. I mean, I've commanded monsters before, like the Orakians do their cyborgs, but you're nothing like those little robots."

"Yes; technically I am an android, not a robot, although the people of both Landen and Aquatica employ the term 'cyborg' for both types of machines."

The two of them left the throne room and headed through the twisting halls towards the front gate.

"What does 'android' mean?"

"A type of independent, self-willed machine crafted to appear human and possessing an artificial intelligence with full sentience." She broke off and chuckled merrily. "Oh, no, now I'm sounding like Wren. All I mean is that I look and act like a person."

"I can't deny that; I didn't realize you were a cyborg until Wren said that you were."

"I'm glad...to be honest, it gets, well...tiring always being thought of as different. Wren doesn't mind, with no emotions he can't feel frustration, rejection, or any of that, but..."

Dayne supposed it must be hard. Orakians and Layans each had many others of their own kind, and their opposite numbers were at least human. Mieu and Wren, though, were apparently the only two of their kind, and as the only one of the two who could feel emotions, Mieu was truly alone.

The guard sergeant found it extremely strange that he could feel pity for a machine. This apparently was a day destined to open his eyes to new ideas.

Mieu sighed.

"I'm sorry; I suppose that the idea of murder must be taking me off-stride. You wouldn't think a combat android would be bothered by death, but, oh, it's different somehow from killing in battle. Not for the dead, of course, but it is for the living."

For a moment, Dayne's gorge rose at the idea that Mieu would count herself among the "living," but he shoved the thought down into the pit it belonged.

"I agree. Laya may have given us Laya's Law to keep us from killing the Orakians, but murder is still a violation of it."

"Well, before there was Orakio's Law, murder was still a crime, so the intolerance for it is older than the ban on killing."

"Older than Orakio's Law?" Dayne gasped. "Mieu, how many years ago _was_ that?"

"Orakio's Law was pronounced nine hundred and forty-nine years ago."

He knew, of course, that the Laya-Orakio wars had been a thousand years ago, but to actually hear it discussed casually from the android's lips, it made his mind reel. He was actually talking to someone who had been alive (or perhaps "in existence" would have been more accurate) while Laya herself and her arch-enemy had.

"You look good for a thousand-year-old woman," he said flippantly to cover the awe.

"Oh, thank you. Everyone says I don't look a day over seven hundred."

Dayne grinned. No, Mieu was most certainly not what he had expected.

The humor vanished from both of their faces, though, when Dayne began giving the details of the killing. He described the crime scene, the doctor's findings, and his encounter with Ballard.

"The last thing I did was to check the ground outside Abel's window for footprints. The ground was fairly hard, and I couldn't find any."

"Perhaps I should take a look. My vision is superior to a human's and may be able to detect traces your eyes could not," Mieu offered.

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

As they neared the front gate, Dayne could hear the rumbles and shouts of the two opposing protestors.

"You know, Mieu, more than likely the killer is someone from one of those two packs of bigots."

"Zealotry," she agreed, "easily turns violent."

"Well, you're a combat cyborg; you're used to taking on your enemies face-to-face, and I'm that way too. Why don't we roust those fanatics and see what shakes out?"


	8. Murder in Shusoran part 3

Some of the guards on the lines had changed, Dayne noted as he emerged from Shusoran Castle with Mieu. Commander Brenton was no doubt rotating in fresh troops so that the fervor of the protesters didn't wear down the guards' physical or mental stamina.

"All right, people, cool it!" Dayne barked. "I've got something to say." Predictably, no one stopped the screaming and sign-waving.

"If I may?" Mieu offered.

"Be my guest."

The android stepped out ahead of him and shouted deafeningly, "_Silence!_"

That managed to get everyone's attention. _Probably would have broken a few windows if the houses were any closer_, Dayne thought, his ears still ringing.

"Thank you, Mieu," he told his partner. Then he turned his attention to the two opposing packs, swiveling his head back and forth from Layans to Orakians as he spoke, making eye contact with hate-filled gazes. For two groups that loathed each other so much, it was surprising how alike they were in all the ways that counted.

"Now listen up, all of you. Some of you know this already; by now you probably all do, but I'll say it anyway. A man named Abel Godley is dead. He was an Orakian, and if someone hadn't stabbed him, he'd have been out here now, yelling obscenities with the rest of you. From where I stand, that makes you the most likely suspects."

He paused to let that sink in, but only for a moment. Any longer and they'd have been howling again, probably accusing each other of the murder.

"Any way you look at it, Laya's Law has been broken, Orakio's Law has been broken, and the laws of Shusoran have been broken. Prince Lyle isn't too happy about this. Since the victim was an Orakian, he felt it might be better to have an Orakian investigator working with the Guard, and so Mieu will be assisting me in finding the killer. I can't think of anyone more Orakian, myself, than a cyborg who actually knew Orakio personally a thousand years ago." He threw that last in as a dig to Ballard and his type in case they started complaining that a cyborg who served "the traitor Rhys" was essentially a Layan in android's clothing. Which they probably would.

"Now, this is how it's going to work," Dayne continued. "Mieu is going to talk to the Orakians and I'm going to talk to the Layans. We'll be asking questions. You'll answer them. If you'd rather crack wise then give us the straight truth, we can have you tossed into the dungeon for impeding royal justice. Once we're done you can go back to your sign-waving and scream yourselves hoarse, but for now, you're _ours_. Got it? Good, let's get started."

Dayne caught more than one grin on the faces of the soldiers on watch as they saw their nemeses temporarily cowed. Too bad it wouldn't last.

"All right," he said, going over to the Layan side, "who's the leader of this mob?" There were around twenty of them, men and women, young and old, poor and well-off. Hate, it seemed, crossed all boundaries.

"We are all equals here," said one older man, his silvery-blue hair shot through with gray. "Free Layan souls, one and all, who have seen the truth that you do not, the truth that the Orakians have concealed from Prince Lyle with their vile deceptions. This marriage, this so-called peace, are all but a prelude to their true plans. Once our defenses are down and they can come and go freely, their spies will sabotage our forces, and their cyborgs will attack."

"Lyle's no victim," another fanatic corrected him, this one a woman with stringy brown hair. "He's a traitor, gone over to the Orakians will full knowledge of their plot."

"Now, Cara, you can't know that," another chimed in.

"Can't I? What true follower of Laya would give a _machine_ the authority to investigate a crime? Lyle's been more than just deluded; he's been corrupted inside and out." She turned to Dayne and said, "Here you are, Sergeant, a Layan warrior, yet serving Orakian whims. You're their pawn, no more, for so long as you take part in this farce."

"Save it for someone who cares," Dayne snapped back at her, then fixed his gaze on the blue-haired, bearded man. "You opened your mouth first, so you get to be the spokesman. What's your name?"

"Merak Le Disan."

"Merak. All right, then, what do you know about Abel Godley?"

"Absolutely nothing. If, as you say, he is one of _them_--" He directed a poisonous glance at the Orakians that was completely at odds with his well-groomed appearance and urbane voice. "--then I shall shed no tears over his death."

"I'm surprised that you don't think more kindly of them. After all, they agree with you about breaking up the alliance."

The man sighed heavily.

"Sergeant, it is clear that you do not truly see the nature of the Orakian threat." His manner seemed almost fatherly, like a wise mentor about to explain some difficult concept to an apprentice. "While the spies of Agoe, led by Rhys, are insidious foes striving to destroy our city, the Orakians who are our opposite numbers are the most virulent in their hatred. They are so steeped in their evil that they cannot even pretend friendship for self-gain. If anyone would kill another person, it would be them."

"_If_," another one added, "there is such a thing as Orakio's Law. I hardly think those worms would have such a civilized standard."

"Yeah," said a third, "those scum probably kill each other all the time."

Dayne scowled at them.

"When I want your opinions, I'll ask for them. Now, while you may assume that Godley was killed by one of his friends, it strikes me that someone might have seen him as a threat, being among the most dangerous of the Orakians, and all. Godley's writings advocated breaking Orakio's Law, killing Layans in defense of the Orakian way of life. This man was a clear threat, and you people don't strike me as the kind to trust your government to deal with the problem."

The woman who'd spoken before spoke up again.

"I'd have done it myself," she said proudly. "Destroying someone like that was good work, whomever did it."

"Whatever happened to Laya's Law?" Dayne asked.

"The extermination of subhuman vermin isn't murder," the fanatic replied hotly. "Laya's Law is a commandment not to kill _people_, not vermin."

"And you'd be happy to do that exterminating."

"I said so, didn't I? If Prince Lyle was truly the champion he claims to be and not the tool of the Orakians, he'd take the army and raze Agoe and Rysel to the ground, finishing the good work of a thousand years ago." She paused, and her eyes narrowed. "As I also said, I didn't perform the deed. I was with my fellow members of Pure Vision, preparing our strategy for ending today's farce of a conference."

"What's Pure Vision?" Dayne asked. The woman didn't answer him, though. It was Merak who spoke.

"There are two groups of Layan loyalists who believe in preserving the true way of our people. I speak for my brothers and sisters of one, the Crusaders of Laya. Pure Vision is the other. Cara, here, is one of the principal members."

"We have no leaders," Cara corrected him. "Each of us is equal, for our only true leader is Laya herself."

"Too bad she's not here to tell you what she thinks of people who break her orders," Dayne said. "All right, people, since this isn't getting us anywhere, I'm going to go down the line. I want names, addresses, and alibis. I hope for your sake that you've got someone besides each other to vouch for your whereabouts last night." He didn't want to have to arrest a Layan for this, but from the way they talked, he couldn't rule them out.

Still, there was nothing hidden about their hatred. They were open and direct about it, spewing their bile to all who'd listen. Slipping up to a room at night and stabbing a man, then sneaking away in the darkness, was a furtive crime, more...secretive. On the other hand, it was perfectly legal to hate Orakians, so there was no reason for the fanatics to hide their _emotions_. Murder was the worst of all crimes and could not be done openly, so even those who were honest about telling their feelings towards the victim wouldn't want to be open and obvious in the killing.

It took him a little under an hour to finish with the reactionaries. Dayne occasionally asked questions when their stories were weak, but he came up with nothing concrete to use against them. He was glad to get away by the time he was done. He himself didn't like Orakians. The truth was, he'd been suspicious of Shusoran allying itself with its ancient enemy. It was all too sudden, too easy.

Now, though, after facing the angry rhetoric of Cara and the smooth, reasonable-seeming poison of Merak, sentiments that their fellows had echoed, the sergeant was finding himself a wholehearted _supporter_ of the alliance...and a good deal ashamed of his previous thoughts. The hatred of his own people was the same as the hatred he'd read in Godley's papers, a hatred spawned of fear.

_It's true_, he thought. _I was afraid of the Orakians, afraid that they were out to destroy us_. Afraid like a child cowering under the covers from the monsters he believed were under the bed.

He wasn't happy when he rejoined Mieu; from the look on her face, she wasn't either.

"Any luck?"

"No," she replied. "They are certainly willing to kill, especially their leader, Ballard, but they all claim to be innocent. Godley was an important man to them, a writer of manifestos and tracts they used to spread their creed to other Orakians, though not formally one of the Sons of Orakio, their group. Their alibis, however, largely depend on one another and upon the testimony of innkeepers--and sneaking out of an inn-room is not often difficult, particularly if one expects to return."

"I've got pretty much the same thing. Most of the Layans are local, so they have family members to vouch for them some of the time, but those family members would have been asleep for part of the time, so none of them has an airtight alibi."

"So," Mieu concluded, "we have no proof, either of innocence or of guilt."

Dayne sighed.

"That's about the size of it." He hooked his thumbs into his belt. "Well, let's take a look at some of the hard evidence. Maybe that'll give us some help that the people won't."

"You have an idea."

"Not much of one. I found a bottle of something in Godley's bag. Dr. Le Malisk was going to see if she could find out what it was. I thought we could go see if she'd come up with an answer."

Mieu agreed, so they went to the hospital. Nyla's office was on the second floor of the large building; the first floor was taken up by the chapel of the healer-priest who used his skills to deal with the near-dead, providing last-chance emergency treatment. The doctor kept her office glisteningly clean, allowing nothing that might add to the chance of infection. The hospital beds were thankfully empty, as was the examining table. The green-haired doctor sat in the corner of the room, amid her chemical equipment.

"Hey, Nyla," Dayne greeted her.

"Such an enthusiastic hello," she replied dryly. "You must not be having much luck." Catching sight of Dayne's companion, her eyes widened. "Wait a second--is that King Rhys' cyborg?"

"My partner on this case. The powers that be wanted this to be a joint investigation between Layans and Orakians."

Nyla nodded.

"That makes sense. That way, no matter who the killer turns out to be, it won't look like one side or the other picked someone to frame for political purposes." She paused, then said, "So, are you going to introduce us?"

"What? Oh, yes, of course. Doctor Nyla Le Malisk, Mieu. Mieu, Nyla."

Mieu smiled at the doctor, rolled her eyes, and said, "Men," in that long-suffering tone that, live or artificial, was entirely female.

"It's nice to meet you. I've never spoken to a cyborg before."

"You should try it more; we're great listeners," she replied with a smile.

"Good, because I have something to tell you."

"About that liquid?" Dayne asked.

"Yes. I performed a couple of tests, and the results were suggestive, so I looked in my oldest medical compendium. It turns out that it's not poisonous, unless you drink a half-gallon of it or so at once. On the contrary, it's a very powerful medicine called amestin."

"I've never heard of it," Mieu remarked, "although my data memory on medical matters is limited to battlefield injuries and poison cures."

"That explains it, then; this is quite a bit more exotic. It functions on the nervous system, acting in much the same way as Trimate does for the whole body, only the effects are ongoing instead of being a single event. It's used to treat degenerative nerve disorders."

Dayne blinked.

"Wait a minute. That sounds serious--as in, fatal."

"Precisely. Whomever the murderer is, he or she could have saved the trouble. Godley couldn't have lived more than a few months longer."


	9. Murder in Shusoran part 4

To say that Nyla's announcement came as a bombshell was an understatement. Even Mieu looked startled, and Dayne was positively caught flatfooted. The whole point of murder was to drastically shorten life, so it made no sense that someone would kill a victim who was about to die anyway. Not unless they didn't know how sick he was.

"This disease--would it be obvious to anyone around him?" Dayne asked.

"Oh, certainly," the doctor told him. "If it had progressed to the stage where he was taking amestin, there would be signs. His hands would shake, his body occasionally tremble uncontrollably; he might even have minor seizures. Other times, though, especially under the medicine's influence, he'd be completely normal, so he'd be able to hide the truth from a casual acquaintance if he used some care."

That explained how he'd been able to write without showing any signs of the illness in the pen-strokes.

"What about someone keeping a close watch on him?" Dayne asked, already fairly sure of the answer.

"Absolutely. He could never hide it."

"All right, then. We've got to assume that Godley was involved in something important that was happening soon, something that made his killing urgent."

The women looked at him in surprise.

"I'm afraid that I don't follow your logic," Mieu observed.

"Well, we know that the killer had to keep a close watch on Abel. He or she knew his inn room, and saw that he was awake during the night. The killer would know that Godley was sick from watching him, but went ahead and committed the murder anyway. There has to be some compelling reason why, some reason that demanded Godley's death."

"What about a personal motive?" Nyla asked.

"A personal motive implies personal knowledge. Godley was going to die what I assume is a steady, debilitating, probably painful"--Nyla nodded her agreement.--"death anyway. Why forestall that?"

Mieu frowned.

"Sergeant, your entire line of reasoning is based upon the supposition that the killer could observe Godley's symptoms and make a medical diagnosis. I don't believe that the majority of people would know that he _was_ dying. Sick, yes, obviously, but not necessarily with a fatal disease."

Nyla tugged at her braid, looking from one of them to the other.

"She's got a point, Dayne. You could easily assume that he was a drunkard or something similar. It's much more likely for the layman than assuming he was going to die from a rare disease."

The sergeant scowled angrily as he watched his theory go up in smoke.

"Yeah, maybe, but blast it, we have to start _somewhere_. If we don't ask the right questions, we're not going to get anywhere at all."

"What about witnesses?" Mieu asked. "Perhaps someone saw something around the time of the murder?"

He shook his head.

"No go. I sent a couple of guards to canvass the town for witnesses when I first found the body. If they'd have learned anything, they'd have reported in by now. I'll bet there's nothing to find. Whomever did this was careful. No tracks and no witnesses."

Dayne turned to Mieu.

"That reminds me. It's about time I took you up on your offer to have a look at the crime scene." He scratched at his chin. "Then, I think we'll give Terrence Ballard a rousting. _If_ Godley was up to something--and I still think he was--he'll be the one to know."

~X X X~

Mieu's examination of the ground outside the window revealed nothing except to verify Dayne's own observations. The ground was hard, though, and the android had barely been able to make out the sergeant's tracks from that morning, let alone those of a killer who had been taking care not to leave traces. What she did find was tiny droplets of blood on the windowsill inside the room, which at least conclusively established that no one had been playing tricks with the site of the murder. The blood must have been a fine mist; the drops were so small that Dayne could only spot one of them without bringing a light over, that a small splotch next to a scratch in the paint that Mieu pointed out to him.

So, without any significant physical evidence to go on, Dayne and Mieu found themselves at Ballard's inn, the Southgate, where he and his fellow Orakian agitators had spent last night plotting their strategy for the first day of protests. The shouting and sign-waving appeared to be over for the evening, so they figured there was a good chance they could find Ballard in his room. The innkeeper, a swarthy, graybearded man, confirmed this impression.

"Are you here to arrest that swine?" he said eagerly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "I've put up with that Orakian filth long enough."

"So why haven't you thrown them out yourself?" Dayne asked, his voice casual.

"Why, Sergeant. It would be a violation of the law to evict a paying guest who'd done nothing to breach the peace of my inn," the innkeeper exclaimed innocently.

"The key word, no doubt, being _paying_. Their meseta spend just like anyone else's, and you couldn't resist it, regardless of how hateful they might be. Spare me the theatrics and tell us where Ballard is."

Sullenly, the graybeard said, "He's in Room Three, just at the top of the stairs."

"Thank you kindly."

The door to Room Three was locked. Dayne rapped on the wood.

"Ballard?"

He got no response.

"Ballard, open up! This is the Guard."

Again, no one answered. Dayne began to get a sickening feeling. This was too much like when he'd been called to investigate Godley's silence that morning and had ended up confronting murder. Without further ado, he raised his boot and hammered it into the lock. The second kick crashed the door open.

"What the--?"

The room was dim, the threadbare curtains drawn to shut out the setting sun. Ballard, clad only in his undergarments, sat upright in bed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"Only asleep," Dayne sighed.

"In Orakio's name, what is this?" Ballard repeated.

"Kind of an early bedtime, isn't it?" Dayne asked. "I guess you were busy last night."

"_You. _I should have known we would never be free of Layan persecution in this monster-ridden city."

The sergeant sighed again.

"Save your rhetoric for your pack of fanatics. I'm here to get an answer to one question and one question only, so listen carefully." He was already beginning to regret being worried for the idiot's life.

"Oh, and is this why you broke into my room?"

"That was a bit precipitate," Mieu observed, "but reasonable, given that we were afraid you might have become the killer's second victim."

_So, she was thinking along the same lines. _

"The second--? You had best hope not, because if I die I can guarantee you that there will be Layan blood running in the streets of Shusoran!"

_That'll teach me to care_, Dayne thought.

"I told you to listen, not run off at the mouth. Here's what I want to know: what did Godley have planned for today?"

"What?"

The guardsman glanced at his new partner.

"Mieu, was I clear?"

"Very clear."

"I thought so. It's an easy question, Ballard. Abel Godley had something planned, something to really tear into the Layans, only he was killed instead. What was he going to do?"

"I...I don't know what you're talking about."

Mieu shook her head sadly.

"You're a bad liar," she said. "You held your breath for a fraction of a second, your heart rate elevated, and the hesitation when you spoke was very obvious. I don't think that would have successfully fooled your own followers, let alone Layan guards."

"I would think you'd want to help us find out who killed your friend," Dayne added.

Ballard sneered at them again. It was getting to be very tiresome.

"Don't make me laugh. You Layan scum haven't got the courage to arrest one of your own. I don't even know why you're going through this farce."

Dayne's left fist knotted in the front of Ballard's undertunic, unceremoniously hauling the Orakian out of bed and shoving him up against the wall.

"You know, Ballard," he snarled between clenched teeth, his face about an inch from the fanatic's, "I've had about all of you that my stomach can take. I don't like Orakians; I never have. When I read the bile Godley wrote there was a part of me that was glad he was dead. The more I hear from you and your Layan opposites, though, the more I realize how damned stupid that is. I listen to you spew your bile and it tells me that I'd better hurry up and realize that Orakians are good and decent people because if I don't I'll be just like you and _that_ is something I don't even want to _think_ about. Now, you're going to tell me exactly what Godley had planned or so help me I'll drag you off to a cell and let you rot until you _do_ answer!"

He spun the Orakian around and pitched him back into bed.

"Now," he roared, "_talk_!"

Ballard looked over at Mieu for support. She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot. _No help there for you_, Dayne thought.

"All...all right. Yeah, Godley did have something planned. I just don't know what it was. You see, he wasn't really one of us. On our side, certainly--he was a believer in Orakio's way with all his heart--but he was a loner, even more so after he got sick. He gave some of the finest speeches I've ever heard and his pamphlets drove home our views better than I ever could, but he didn't like to get involved in organized demonstrations or other activities. Like I said, he liked to go on his own."

"You knew he was sick?"

"Of course. He tried to hide it, but it was obvious if you spent enough time around him."

"So what _did_ you know about his plans?" Mieu brought the interrogation back on point.

"Like I said, he didn't tell--"

"He obviously told you _something_, or you wouldn't know about it at all," Dayne snapped.

"Nothing specific! All he said was that he had something special planned, something that would put you Layans in your place for once and for all. He told me that it wouldn't interfere with what we're doing, so my group should go ahead with its plans, but what he would do would destroy any chance of the conference's success."

"Did you believe him?"

"Well...yes and no."

Dayne's gaze narrowed.

"Can you be any _less_ clear?"

"Godley talked big, but sometimes he got...carried away by his own rhetoric. I believed he had something planned, but wasn't sure that it was anywhere near as effective as he hoped it would. He had too much faith in the power of words. I assumed that he meant he had a new manifesto to spread that he believed would change people's minds."

_That tallied,_ thought the sergeant. The papers in Abel's room certainly looked like a fresh appeal to Orakian bigotry.

"Where did you tell you this?" Mieu asked.

"We had dinner together last night at his inn."

"When?"

"We ate around seven. I left at quarter-to, leaving Godley to linger over his last drink. I had to get back to the Sons of Orakio."

"Thank you," Mieu said politely. She glanced at Dayne. "Did you have any more questions?"

He shook his head curtly.

"No, that'll do for now."

He spun on his heel and strode out, with the cyborg on his heels.

"The times agree," he told Mieu. "The innkeeper said Godley finished dinner at eight and went up to his room. Why were you so interested in where it happened?"

"I was wondering if one of our Layan suspects might have overheard them talking, since your theory about the victim having an urgent plan turned out to be correct."

They brushed past the innkeeper, whose face fell as he realized they weren't going to share any news with him, and went out into the street. The night air was fresh, thanks to Shusoran's spacious layout and well-maintained program of sanitation. It was a nice town, a good place to live, and the sergeant ached to think of the blot on its honor.

"That's a good idea." He sighed heavily. "You know what this means, Mieu? We'll have to talk to the innkeeper, get a list of everyone Sera can remember who was there last night, and check on all their alibis too. It doesn't _have_ to be one of the zealots, after all. It might have been anyone who heard Godley and Ballard talking hate and got scared of what he had planned. Looks like it's back to the Windward."

_More walking_, Dayne groaned inwardly. He was wearing new boots for the conference and they were starting to rub.

On the way back they passed a large house. Dayne scowled as he saw it, almost involuntarily.

"Is something wrong?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry, Mieu. That's the house of that guy Merak, head of the Crusaders of Laya."

"Oh? He's just down the street from the Windward Inn?"

"Convenient, isn't it? Too bad his followers all claim they were together over at Selmo's Supply Shoppe from eight to three..." His voice trailed off.

"Dayne, what is it?"

"The Supply Shoppe is at the end of this street. The _very_ other end, nowhere near the inn, which is why I didn't think of it before, but the most direct route from here to the Crusaders' meeting is right past the Windward. If Merak just _happened_ to stop in for a drink, and _happened_ to overhear Godley talking to Ballard, well, there might have been a new crusade last night."

Excited, he started off down the cobbled road at a fast clip, heedless of the boots.

"If we can place him at the inn at the right time, we've got him!"


	10. Murder in Shusoran part 5

The Windward's red-haired innkeeper was as perceptive as Dayne had assumed she was that morning. Sera remembered that Godley had eaten dinner with someone else, provided a fairly accurate description of Ballard without prompting, and then capped it all off by exclaiming, "Oh! That was that rude man who pushed his way past me this morning, Sergeant Rathman!"

"That's what he told us. It's good to have confirmation from a more reliable source, though." He tapped his fingers on his belt. "That gives rise to another test for your memory, though. I need to know who was here while they were dining together, say between seven and quarter to eight."

She frowned, pondering the question.

"That's not easy. Myself and the servants, of course. I think most of the guests ate around then, too. The merchant from Rysel, Ogin, definitely didn't; he had an appointment at the castle, but the rest were there. The cook starts serving at seven, you see. A couple of my regulars came by, too. Lina Pelham did; she had her usual game of cards with Mort Castledown. Weston Gale got thrown out of the house by his wife again, so he ate here, but he didn't spend the night so he must have wheedled his way back to her." Dayne almost laughed at the rendition of inn life when Sera dropped the other shoe. "Oh, and Merak Le Disan stopped by for a brandy."

He pounced on it immediately.

"When did he do that?"

"I can't be sure; around seven-thirty, I suppose."

_Good enough. _

"Thank you very much," Dayne said earnestly. "Could you write up a list of the names? I may need them later."

"Certainly...but, you don't think that _Merak_ would have committed the murder, do you? Laya's Law is sacred to him. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Yes, but it wasn't a fly that was killed. From Merak's point of view it was a much more nauseating kind of vermin--an Orakian. Come on, Mieu; it looks like we have another evening call to pay."

~X X X~

Merak's front door had a fancy brass knocker in the shape of a ring hanging from a dragon's mouth. It also had a fancy butler wearing a tunic and breeches that could only have been livery.

"We'd like to see Merak."

"The master is not receiving visitors. I suggest you return in the morning, at a proper hour."

"Let me rephrase that: get out of the way. This is official business."

"My master's time is valuable. You cannot simply accost him to suit your whims."

"Wrong."

Mieu stepped forward.

"Can I do it this time?"

"Be my guest."

With considerably more strength than her slight body suggested, Mieu simply took the butler by the lapels, lifted him off the floor, and set him down two feet to the right. While he was still trying to think up an appropriately indignant response, Dayne and Mieu walked on by.

"Nicely done."

"Thank you. I don't get many opportunities to bully people; you humans always seem to want to do it yourselves."

Dayne wondered if cyborgs were programmed for irony as they climbed a grand, curving staircase to the second floor. They found the master bedroom easily enough, and it turned out that, like Ballard, Merak had gone to bed early. Unlike Ballard, though, Merak wasn't asleep. When he answered the knock, clad in a long, belted robe, Dayne could see past him to make out a woman clutching a sheet to cover herself in the huge, four-poster bed. It was, predictably, Cara, the woman from the rival group of Layan extremists.

"Political negotiations?" Dayne inquired politely.

Merak's eyes flashed with anger.

"This is intolerable, Sergeant Rathman!" he snapped. "You barge into my home, enter my private rooms without my consent, disturb a lady's modesty, and then make insulting remarks! Beyond these merely personal affronts, you have the gall to bring this _abomination_ into my home!" He pointed dramatically at Mieu. "A product of Orakian deviltry, not merely their usual slave-machines but an imitation of a human being made by their hateful sciences. Mark my words, if we continue as we are now those..._things_...will replace our neighbors, our friends...yes, even our co-workers," he added slyly.

"You know, today was the first time I've ever spoken to a cyborg. I've also talked to a couple of dozen people, and you know what? On average, I'll take the cyborg. Especially compared to the present company. Now, if you're finished asking me to justify myself, we'll move on to another little question, namely, why didn't you mention that you'd stopped off at the Windward Inn for a drink last night on your way to the meeting?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Merak challenged. "Moreover, you still have not removed this devil's spawn from my home."

"I'll go," Mieu offered. "I'm certain you'll have a more productive conversation without my presence."

"You'll stay." Dayne turned to Merak. "Mieu is an officer of the guard by order of Prince Lyle himself. She has every right to be here and you have no right to send her away. The only way you'll get rid of both of us is to answer our questions fully and completely. Do you understand?"

There was no give in his voice; his tone was as inflexible as laconia. He even managed to bank back most of his anger, aware that firmness would get better results from a man like Merak than rage. They locked eyes for a long moment, then Le Disan sighed.

"All right. At least let's step out into the hall so we don't disturb Cara."

Dayne assented, and Merak closed the bedroom door behind them.

"Now, to answer your question, I did not mention it because you asked me where I was at the time of the murder...though perhaps 'extermination' would be a better word for it. I told you where I was and gave you the hours of the meeting, which according to you began well before the crime. It would have been a waste of my time and yours to expand on my activities for the entire day. What could possibly be significant about having a drink? I stop at the Windward often; Sera serves good food and has an excellent cellar.

"What's significant is that you happened to be there just when Abel Godley was announcing to his fellow Orakian hate-monger, Terence Ballard, that he had something in store for us today, something big that would put we Layans 'in our place.' Is this starting to make sense to you?"

Merak's eyebrows snapped upward.

"Are you accusing me of this murder?"

"Accusing? Not yet. Let's just say that it raises some interesting questions. You knew that Godley was up to no good. You didn't know what he planned, but you did know that you needed to act fast. Last night, somebody did act. Today, Godley is dead, and whether his plan was a real danger or only a twisted mind's dream, it didn't happen."

There was still no fear in the man's eyes, only the cold arrogance of a powerful man affronted by the presence of gnats.

"As you may remember, I have an alibi for most of the night, including the time when you said the murder was committed."

"An alibi backed up _only_ by your fellow Crusaders of Laya. Let's face facts, Merak. You were at the Windward, and then at a meeting with your fellows, who like you had a good reason to act on their knowledge."

"Knowledge I didn't have. I overheard nothing whatsoever at the inn, either interesting or not, that Godley may have said. Moreover, we of the Crusaders of Laya believe in following Laya's Law, her direct commandment to her people. We would not break it, particularly not over scum like Godley. You have no evidence against me, only supposition, inference, and guesswork tainted by personal dislike and, no doubt, the corrupting influence of this Orakian abomination. I, on the other hand, have the testimony of nine virtuous Layans that I have done nothing illegal last night, _especially_ an act as fiendish as murder. Therefore, I request that you leave my home and stop bothering me unless you have something meaningful to accomplish."

It was galling, but he had a point. Dayne had no evidence to tie him to the killing, only deductions that might be based on mist and moonlight instead of facts.

The door was suddenly flung open and Cara stormed out of the bedroom fully dressed, her fists clenched.

"I couldn't wait any longer, Merak. I couldn't bear to let you face this Orakian pawn alone."

"It's quite all right, Cara," the suspect replied. "They've all but finished with me by now, as you can see, and were at last preparing to go."

"_We_ decide when an interview is over, Merak, not you."

"Further questioning would be pointless. I have nothing more to say."

"That's too bad, because I have plenty more to ask." Hammering away at Merak's cool facade would be slow going at best, but it would be the only way to work an admission out of him or his followers. If he had to confront all nine of them, Dayne thought, this could end up being a very long night.

Cara stepped forward at once.

"You stupid, pampered tool of the enemy!" she barked. "It's just like I thought; you're nothing but Prince Lyle's weapon to destroy a decent man fighting for the true Layan way of life! I won't let you do it! I won't let you treat Merak like a common criminal!"

She all but flew at him, fists upraised, and reflexively Dayne's hands dropped to his fighting staffs. There was no need to use them, though; Merak caught the his lover by the shoulder and pulled her back, aware of the potential consequences for herself and the movement if she physically attacked a guard.

Dayne didn't take his hands from the leather-wrapped grips of the two steel weapons at once, though. They rested there for a moment, until he lifted them slowly, looking from one hand to the other.

"It could be..."

He shook off the effects of the brainstorm and stared hard at the two reactionaries.

"We're going now," he told them firmly. "Don't get too complacent. If we need to question you again, be available."

He spun on his heel and stalked off towards the grand staircase, Mieu trailing along behind. Once they were outside the house, though, he turned to the android.

"Mieu, I've got an idea. I want to try it out on you, first, because if I'm right this could explain everything."

"I saw you looking oddly at your hands. Was that what made you think of it?"

"That's what got it started, but the chain of thought has gotten fairly long. That's why I need your opinion, to see if any of the links are suspect."

"You do tend to be somewhat enthusiastic about your ideas," Mieu observed.

When Dayne was finished, though, even Mieu had to admit that he had a good reason to be enthusiastic this time.


	11. Murder in Shusoran part 6

In Dayne's ordinary Guard work, there was no need for a grand presentation to a gathered audience. He made his reports to his superior officers, arrested suspects if necessary, and occasionally testified at trial. What he didn't do was demonstrate his solution to a group of observers, with the need to convince him that he was right.

Then again, this case was nothing resembling ordinary.

Godley's inn room was packed with more people than it had any right to be, just twenty-six hours after the corpse had been found. Fortunately, the Windward's private rooms were spacious, owing to the relatively low level of mercantile traffic Shusoran had experienced prior to opening up trade with the Orakians. Present were Prince Lyle, King Rhys, Commander Brenton, and Wren, there to hear Dayne and Mieu's conclusions. Nyla was there to confirm the medical evidence. Merak, Cara, and Ballard were also there, in the hope that truth might bank some of their inflammatory rhetoric as well as due to their role as prime suspects. The latter two wore manacles, on account of an outbreak of opposing viewpoints that had turned into a brawl in the inn-yard. Two guards had remained, in the hope of warding off any further misbehavior. Finally, the innkeeper was there, flitting around the edges of the group, driven by simple human curiosity.

In short, it was practically a stage play.

"All right, I believe everyone relevant is here," Lyle announced. "Mieu, Sergeant, why don't you give us your report? Before you do, though, I would like to commend you on dealing with this matter so quickly." Glancing at the three chief troublemakers, he added, "The last thing we needed was to have this hanging over us for any length of time."

"Thank you," Mieu said, pleased. She turned to Dayne. "It was mostly your idea. Would you like to start?"

"Why not?" The sergeant hooked his thumbs in his belt and swept his gaze from face to face.

"We all know why we're here. The night before last, probably around eleven or twelve, Abel Godley was killed in this room. The cause of death was a knife thrust, received while he was standing at that window." He pointed to the murder site. "Nyle--that's Dr. Le Malisk, here--verified that it was a stabbing, that the weapon hadn't been thrown. Unfortunately, the killer didn't leave any footprints on the hard ground outside the window."

His boots clicked on the floor as he paced.

"Godley turned out to be a reactionary Orakian, one of those who wanted to go back to the good old days when Layans were Layans, Orakians were Orakians, and they met only on the battlefield. That pretty much pointed the finger in one of two directions. Either it was a Layan fanatic who killed him for his views, or an Orakian fanatic with whom he had some kind of a falling-out." He looked over to the bruised and bloodied Cara and Ballard. "You can see where I'm coming from about these groups and their use of violence."

"Layan cur, how dare--"

"Cyborg-loving oppressor, I'll--"

"Oh, spare me," Dayne snapped, cutting them both off. "If this case has taught me anything it's that Prince Lyle was right to play matchmaker for King Rhys and Queen Maia. You two are so clueless that if you told me the sky was blue I'd have to go outside and check."

"Well said," Rhys murmured to Lyle.

"We like him," his friend replied.

"Now, the weapon suggested an Orakian, but that wasn't conclusive," Dayne continued, "because Layans use knives too, though not as standard combat equipment. What was more annoying is that _both_ sides were apparently at all-night planning meetings, deciding what insults to shout at the castle walls or whatever, and so the all had alibis."

"Although," Mieu noted, "we didn't necessarily trust those alibis, both because the killing might have been a group plot and because people do lie to protect friends or a cause to which they feel sufficiently devoted."

"The next discovery was the doctor's. We'd found a vial in Godley's bags, which Nyla tested. She found out that it contained a rare medicine used to treat a potentially fatal nerve disease. Is that basically right, Nyla?"

The doctor nodded.

"Yes, in essence. I also went back and checked the body after we'd talked yesterday. He did show signs of the disease, so you can be sure that the medicine was actually his."

"Thanks. That's good to verify. In other words, Godley had been as good as dead anyway, with a medical time bomb ticking away inside him."

He paused to let that sink in.

"The obvious question is, why kill someone who is going to die a slow and painful death anyway? That brings us to the night of the murder, when Godley told Ballard, there, that he had a big plan in store for us yesterday, something devastating to the Layans."

"I see; that means that he could have been killed last night to keep him from carrying out his plan," Rhys deduced.

Dayne nodded.

"That was exactly my thought, your Majesty. It explained completely why someone would murder a dying man. If he had a grand plan that would have been carried out yesterday, then killing him might have been the only way to stop him.

"And who knew about this plan? Well, not only was Ballard the man he told it to, but by a shocking coincidence Merak there just happened to be in this inn for a brandy while Abel was doing the telling. Now, while we can't prove what, if anything, he may actually have heard, it makes for interesting thinking--and it gives both the Orakians and the Layans both motive and opportunity."

"Unfortunately," Mieu said, "all that does so far is to provide a large number of suspects. It doesn't include hard evidence ruling any out or pointing to any as being guilty."

"I suppose," noted the prince, "that you have more to add?"

"Of course, your Highness," Dayne answered. He surveyed the faces of his audience; they were intrigued but impatient. The three fanatics for their part had hard, angry eyes, the defiant expressions of people who were ready to defend themselves against an expected attack.

"That's when I had an idea," Dayne said. He drew the two staffs from his belt, holding them up. "A lot of people use a two-weapon fighting style. We guards often use two staffs or two slicers. Mieu, here, uses two claws. I've seen Orakians who fight with two needlers...or two knives."

He glanced back and forth again, seeing if anyone had gotten his point.

"I could explain what I mean, but I think a demonstration would be in order. Mieu?"

The android nodded. She held up a sheathed knife.

"Sergeant Rathman found this knife in this room. It obviously belonged to Godley, and it is almost exactly like the weapon which killed him." She drew the blade and went over to the window. "Can everyone see?"

After receiving a few murmurs of agreement, Mieu braced the hilt of the knife against the windowsill and the point against her abdomen. She then released the handle, grabbed the edge of the sill, and thrust herself forward, plunging the knife into her own body.

There were more than a few gasps--from the Commander, the other Layans, even the fanatics. Dayne's stomach churned, even though he'd discussed this with Mieu the night before when she'd suggested the demonstration. He knew that she felt no pain because she had not been programmed for that sensation, it being useless to impair a combat cyborg's functions with pain beyond the actual physical damage. She'd also told him that her self-repair systems could easily cope with what would be, to her, a minor injury. It still disturbed him, though, to see a friend suffer an apparently serious wound.

_A friend_, he thought. _I wonder when that happened?_

Mieu knelt next to the window, and Dayne's heart lurched as he thought for an instant that she'd collapsed from the injury, but she quickly set that worry aside.

"It's the same!" she caroled happily. "It made the same kind of chip in the paint as this one here."

Dayne went over to see. The android was absolutely right; next to the chip he'd noticed earlier was a second, nearly identical one. He grinned wolfishly as he saw the evidence.

"Wait a minute, Sergeant," Lyle said. "Are you telling us that Godley committed suicide?"

"That's right," Mieu answered for him, getting back to her feet and pulling out the knife.

"I'd ruled it out at first," Dayne said, "because we found one knife that was obviously his. The fact is, though, he had two of them."

"Preposterous!" Ballard exclaimed. "This is just one of your tricks to let a Layan get away with murdering an Orakian!"

_Oh, like we couldn't see_ that _coming. _

"Godley was dying anyway," Dayne explained, "an unpleasant and painful death from a disease he could stave off for a while but not cure. So, he decided to end his own pain in a way that simultaneously would strike a blow against Layan-Orakian peace. He didn't just forget to leave a suicide note; he actually set everything up to make it look as if he'd been murdered. The window was open to throw a knife through--he probably didn't guess Nyla could tell it was a stab wound."

"Why go through all that rigamarole with the knife and the windowsill?" the Commander asked. "Why not just stab himself?"

"He didn't want to accidentally leave his hand on the knife," Mieu suggested. "Godley was intelligent enough to know that after the stabbing, he might not be able to think clearly and let go."

"Godley's plan," Dayne continued, "was to stir up hatred and discontent among the Layans and Orakians. A Layan would be the obvious suspect, yet there would be no proof of guilt. As you, King Rhys and Queen Maia, were saying before, the people of Agoe might suspect that Prince Lyle was shielding a Layan murderer. The Layans would be incensed at the unjust accusation. Perhaps, he even felt little enough of you to believe that you actually would frame an Orakian, your Highness, which would fan the flames tenfold. Ultimately, the fact of his death would become a central point to raise tensions and destroy the peace you've been working so hard for."

Lyle shook his head.

"What drives a man to do something like this?"

"The same thing that kept the war going for one thousand years," Mieu said. "Fear."

Dayne couldn't help but look at the three extremists. That was what it was all about, wasn't it? Each one of them was convinced in the depths of his or her soul that the other side was made up of hideous fiends who were intent on destroying their homes, their families, their entire way of life. That blind, irrational fear of the different was reflected by equally irrational hatred, a hate not based on facts but on their own twisted belief.

He wondered if, a thousand years ago, Orakio and Laya had seen this in their people and been afraid of it. Or, if they'd been just as caught up in the hate as any of them.

~X X X~

"So what do you think?" Lyle asked his friend later, once the fanatics had been taken on their way and everyone else had gone from the inn room.

"I believe him," Rhys answered.

"I do, too," Lyle agreed. "Rathman is a good criminal investigator and Mieu, well, we both know how reliable she is. That's not what I meant, though."

"Oh?"

"What I'm wondering is, will anyone else believe it? I remember some of the things a certain hotheaded Orakian prince had to say about Layans during our quest--and some of the things _I_ thought about _you_."

Rhys ran his hand through his bright blue hair.

"I did have a temper in the old days, didn't I?"

Lyle laughed.

"The old days? That was barely a year ago."

Rhys grinned back at his friend.

"It was before I wed Maia. That makes it the distant past."

Lyle chuckled. He himself had recently become engaged to a Cillean noblewoman, a political marriage, but not one without affection. He wondered if it would mean as much to him someday as Rhys and Maia's marriage had to them.

"As for your question," Rhys went on, "I think that yes, for the most part, the truth will be believed. The king of Agoe is a reasonable man. He knows that you are honorable. He also knows, I may add, that Shusoran was all but tearing down his walls in the last war, so he won't be inclined to start a new one. As for the common people, I doubt they like crazies like Godley any more than your folk like the Layan fanatics. Ballard probably won't ever believe it, and he and his type will probably mutter about the 'murder conspiracy' for years to come whenever they don't have anything better to complain about, but then, you never expected to win them over anyway."

He clapped his Layan friend on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Lyle. That's one of the things about truth. It may take a long time, but it can't be hidden forever."


	12. The Ol' Three Shell Wren

_A/N: As any of my long-time readers know, I enjoy doing short humor stories within my various fandoms. _Phantasy Star IV_ got the Alys and Joss series, and even _Phantasy Star III _got a few of this kind, like this story._

~X X X~

"Round and round the shells go; keep a sharp eye out or you'll be fooled--got to be quick and smart to catch the ball. Now, sir, where do you think it is?"

The patter reached Mieu and Wren's audio sensors at about the same time as the two androids strolled through Cille's marketplace. They were searching for a birthday gift for Prince Ayn, who was going to be one year old in two days. Wren was not particularly certain why Mieu felt they should adhere to this human custom, but the red-haired android did many things that confused him due to the emotional capacity she had been programmed with. He had agreed, however, as due to this capacity she was often a better judge of what would make their master, King Rhys, best satisfied with their performance.

Wren was going to walk on towards the shops, but Mieu took his arm.

"Wait a second, Wren. We should take a look at this."

"Why? It appears to be a simple gambling game, unconnected with our search for a birthday present."

Mieu sighed. Since she didn't breathe, being a machine, this was one of the various mannerisms she had been programmed with to make humans feel more at ease conversing with her.

"Just come on, Wren."

Several men and women were clustered around a makeshift table. Behind it, a young man with bright blue hair and a light coating of stubble on his chin moved three maruera-nut shells around each other. The apparent purpose of the game was to locate a bright green glass marble. Wren watched a woman point to the shell on the gambler's right.

"There; it's under there."

The gambler lifted the shell, revealing that there was nothing under it.

"Sorry, ma'am, but you're not a winner this time." The gambler swept a ten-meseta coin into his pocket. A man stepped forward, tossed another coin down, and lost as well.

"Why don't you play, Wren?" Mieu suggested.

"I have no desire to do so, or indeed to engage in any form of recreational behavior. Moreover, as I understand the phenomenon, the appeal of gambling is rooted in the uncertainty, the fact that success or failure depends upon factors entirely outside the player's control. With my advanced sensors, I am capable of following the progression of the marble in this game flawlessly."

"That's more or less what I was counting on." She ushered him towards the table.

The gambler looked the android up and down.

"Um...you're one of those cyborgs that came with King Rhys, aren't you?"

Wren forbore from pointing out the technical inaccuracy of the term "cyborg," aware that over the one thousand years since his creation, the common usage of the word had changed so that it now referred to both androids and robots collectively rather than a being that combined organic and mechanical parts.

"That is so. I wish to play."

He placed a ten-meseta coin onto the table as he'd seen the others do.

The gambler swallowed nervously. Wren found this to be logical, as the man's livelihood depended upon successfully hiding the marble from his customers.

"Well, um, okay. Watch the ball now, and don't let it leave your sight." He showed the marble, then tipped up one of the shells and hid the ball from view. He then started mixing up the shells. "Round and round they go; got to have a fast eye or you'll be fooled." He stopped moving the shells. "Now, sir, where do you think it is?"

"The marble is currently held in your left hand."

Murmurs came from the crowd, and the gambler turned a shade paler.

"Wait a second; it's not in my hand, see?" He held up his empty hands.

"That is correct. You have transferred it to your vest pocket since I made my initial statement."

"What?" someone in the throng shouted.

"You cheated?" another accused.

"He's a dirty cheat!"

"You give us our money back!"

The gambler backed away, holding his hands out as if trying to ward the crowd off. "Now, now, let's not be hasty..."

"Get him!"

The brawl started almost immediately thereafter.

"Okay, Wren, let's go," Mieu said.

"Should we not intervene? It is likely that people will be injured."

"Exactly. Come on, Wren, we have shopping to do."

Wren consulted his core directives, verified that Mieu's suggestion took precedence over any but the most strained interpretation of the standing orders given to him by his current master, and followed along towards a display selling plush toys. Trying to predict Mieu's reactions would, he speculated, make for an excellent gambling game.

He did not, however, mention this to her.


End file.
